


The Ending Has Not Yet Been Written

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompts.  For chapter 1: "Everything is changing, their mission is over, and they are *all* being reassigned. Everyone else should be sort of sad, but excited too, because they are going on to bigger, better, newer things. Maybe at the end someone stays, and there is wonderful, I-love-you-and-cannot-leave-sex, or maybe (even better), there is sad, this-is-the-last-time sex."</p>
<p>Follows Kirk and Spock after their first five year mission is complete.  Kirk is offered a promotion to Admiral, and Spock decides to spend time on New Vulcan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fissure

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a giant nerd who stole the series and chapter titles from the Myst series.

_**Lieutenant Commander Scott, Montgomery**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise. Captain strongly advises against reinstating him on Delta Vega as he has not only proven himself an engineer of the highest possible caliber, but has also managed to restore Admiral Archer's dog and should no longer face punishment for a mistake he has since rectified. Recommend three weeks of shore leave before he reports to Starfleet Academy for his required year of teaching._

_**Chief Medical Officer McCoy, Leonard**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise. Captain recommends Starfleet disregard evaluations disparaging his bedside manner in favor of his medical research and surgical breakthroughs over the past five years. Has requested one year of professional leave to care for his daughter in the wake of his ex-wife's death. Captain fully supports his request._

_**Lieutenant Sulu, Hikaru**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise. Captain recommends promotion to Lieutenant Commander so that he may serve as First Officer on a Starfleet flagship in an effort to someday attain his own captaincy._

_**Lieutenant Uhura, Nyota**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise. Captain believes her services will be useful in the relocation of the Romulan people due to her ability to not only speak the language but also to easily distinguish all three dialects. Highly recommended for Command training should she express an interest at any point in the future. ___

_**Ensign Chekov, Pavel**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise. Captain recommends promotion to Lieutenant and requests that he be stationed with Lieutenant Sulu, as they would make an excellent Command team together once Sulu has finished his training._

__Jim looks over his paperwork with a sigh. He has remained on the Enterprise, the sole person on the bridge. He's half curled into the Captain's chair poring over the data PADD that will determine the next few years of his crew's future. He is surprised - and admittedly, a little hurt - when he discovers that not one of them has put in a request to remain here with him._ _

__It isn't personal. He knows that on a very basic level, even though the irrational part of him believes otherwise. Scotty needs to fulfill his teaching requirement in order to be allowed to work on the refitting of the Enterprise that will inevitably occur in the next few years. Bones needs to take care of his daughter now that Jocelyn has passed away, needs to reconnect with his family and make arrangements for when - for if, rather - he goes back into space. Uhura is the perfect person for the colonization of Romulus II between her linguistic talents and her ability to empathize with the species despite Nero's deranged destruction of one planet and the near demise of another. And Sulu - Jim knows that Sulu has been lusting over a captaincy of his own for the past few years now, knows too that Chekov is the best possible choice to eventually serve as his First Officer. So no, it isn't personal._ _

__He's been a good Captain. It isn't his own ego talking, although it does tend to echo across the galaxy on a good day. He's seen the peer reviews his crew sent in, seen the overwhelming praise that's been sent to Starfleet on his behalf. And yet here he is on his mostly deserted ship filling out paperwork to send them scattered across the universe because not one of them wishes to remain with him._ _

__Not one of them._ _

__With a pained expression, he scrolls up to the entry regarding his First Officer, the one that should have had priority over the others, the one he couldn't bring himself to fill out yet._ _

_**First Officer Spock, S'chn T'gai**  
Commended for exceptional service during the five year mission of the USS Enterprise._

__It's the same thing he's written for every other member of his crew, and it sounds even more hollow when placed under Spock's name. They've all of them - _all_ of them - done extraordinary things during their service aboard the Enterprise. He can think of at least a half dozen times every one of his favorite officers has risked their life for the ship or the crew. They've seen things no one else in the fleet can dream of, wormed their way out of situations that would have had lesser crews turned into a faint red smear of debris amongst the stars._ _

__But Spock ... Spock's service record does him no justice. It can't. There are no words for some of the things Spock has done to keep him safe, the kinds of things he's suffered so that his Captain can go about his job. He's seen him arrested, tortured, humiliated, seen him take it all with an icy calm because he believes it to be his duty. There's little he can write in his report to Starfleet to really encompass all Spock has done without embarrassing him, and the stale, sterile writing he enters on his PADD does him no justice._ _

___Spock has requested to be decommissioned from Starfleet; length of decommission unknown at present. Captain requests that he be allowed to return to the colony developing on New Vulcan to assist in rebuilding efforts there._ _ _

__Once it's finally written in the PADD, Jim drops it and slumps back in his chair. This is the part he's struggling to understand._ _

__Years ago, a much older Spock informed the younger Spock - _his_ Spock - that theirs was a friendship that would define them both. It's taken a long time to get there - almost a full year into the mission before Spock finally stopped calling him Captain all the damn time - but without a doubt it has been the most rewarding aspect of his time on the Enterprise. Granted, he's the youngest Captain in the fleet. Granted, he's managed to carve out a place for himself in history without having to resort to simply being George Kirk's son. Granted, he has a crew he'd die for and who have regularly put their lives on the line for him._ _

__But Spock ... _gets_ him. He's too young and at the same time too jaded to put much stock in things like destiny, but he is irresistibly drawn to the half-Vulcan in ways he can't explain. He's absolutely brilliant, which means he's also smart enough to figure out that Jim is too, rather than brushing him off as a headstrong idiot like so many other people tend to do. He's fiercely loyal when he believes someone worthy of it, and knowing just how high his standards are makes Jim feel like some kind of hero to know he's earned that loyalty. He has a dry sense of humor that seems to elude most of his crew, but once Jim finally catches onto it, it's one of the highlights of his day. He plays an absolutely infuriating game of chess, and that seems to be a mutual feeling._ _

__And he loves Jim._ _

__This in itself is something of a miracle. Jim knows he has plenty of qualities that are anything but lovable: he's stubborn, arrogant, has a questionable reputation as something of a man-whore, and whenever he can't outwit an opponent he tends to simply throw himself into the fray and hope for the best. He gets morose and miserable to be around on his birthday. When he drinks too much he can be found either in the Mess Hall or locked in Sick Bay belting out obscene drinking songs with his best friend. He flirts with Uhura purely to annoy her. He touches Spock incessantly, despite knowing that he prefers little to no physical contact with those around him._ _

__And yet somehow, through all of that, Spock loves him._ _

__They've never talked about it, and Jim despairs of ever doing so now. It's an unspoken thing between them, something they're both aware of but never verbally acknowledge. There's the chain of command to consider, the idea that certain decisions Jim makes as Captain can be interpreted differently if everyone thinks he's got a closer-than-strictly-necessary relationship with his First Officer. There's the friendship to consider, something both of them treasure and that neither of them is willing to sacrifice for the potential to develop something more. Hell, there's Jim's feelings to consider - Spock is without a doubt one of his best friends, one of the few people he feels close to, but he isn't sure whether his feelings extend beyond friendship, isn't even sure if he's capable of it._ _

__And there's Vulcan. Or rather, there isn't._ _

__Spock never told him why he decided to stay on as his First Officer when he was given the Enterprise. Jim knew he had wanted to head off to the colony to help rebuild, but apparently something had changed his mind. Not wanting Spock to question that decision, Jim had never broached the subject with him._ _

__He wonders if Spock's decision to go now has something to do with the illness he contracted during the first year of their mission. He'd gone mad and had nearly destroyed himself in what he described as a blood fever. They had managed to get him to New Vulcan as he'd requested, and three days later he returned to the ship looking worn and embarrassed but otherwise unharmed. He never spoke of the illness that had gripped him or what the cure had been and Jim had forbidden anyone to ask - including McCoy._ _

__Now, with their five year mission complete, Spock is leaving Starfleet - leaving Jim. And he shouldn't take it personally like that, shouldn't be moping about this like a lovesick teenager, but he's the only one on the bridge and so he allows himself his sulk._ _

__Allows it, that is, until the turbolift opens and reveals his First Officer, no longer dressed in his science blues but rather in those strange, draping Vulcan clothes he wears so rarely. Jim straightens out of his sulk and hopes fervently that Spock didn't notice it, trying hard to look professional and Captain-like._ _

__"Starfleet has given me one final mission before I return to New Vulcan," Spock informs him solemnly._ _

__Jim wonders briefly if the Admirals are just trying to fuck with him one last time before he goes through the promotional process. "And what might that be?"_ _

__"I am to escort you off the Enterprise, as she cannot be processed for maintenance procedures until the entire crew has disembarked."_ _

__He grins a little at that. "Yeah, I know. But I needed to get the crew recommendations done and I can't do that in some tiny Starfleet cubicle."_ _

__Spock raises an eyebrow at him, that one little gesture that can mean anything from, 'Your hypothesis seems intriguing,' to, 'You're being a complete idiot but I can't say that to my commanding officer.' Jim loves the eyebrow-interpretation game and he can't come to terms with the idea of not being able to play it anymore. "I fail to understand why you would be unable to complete your work in an alternate location."_ _

__"Because it's the Enterprise. Because I don't know if I'll be allowed back on her again. I spent the best five years of my life aboard this ship. I'm not that eager to leave." Maybe it comes off a little bitter, but he can't help it._ _

__If Spock senses the bitterness, he doesn't comment on it. But he does reach out a hand to touch the corner of the helmsman's console, as if he needs one last connection with the ship. "May I ask a personal question?" he says after several moments of silence._ _

__"You know you can."_ _

__He inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Why did you accept Starfleet's proposal to promote you to Admiral?"_ _

__"It's quite an honor. I was the youngest Captain in the fleet and now they're offering to make me the youngest Admiral."_ _

__"But it is not in your nature to accept a challenge merely for the fame involved." And this is another part of why he loves Spock; where everyone else sees a brash, egotistical blowhard trying to make a name for himself, Spock sees him for what he really is: a Captain who happens to love even the hardest parts of his job. Gaining some measure of notoriety for his adventures is inevitable considering the number of successful missions he's pulled off during his relatively short career. The fame is just a side effect of the love for a challenge. It certainly isn't the ultimate goal._ _

__He feels another pang at the idea of losing this man, and he shrugs inarticulately in lieu of a properly reasoned response. "It seemed like the thing to do, considering the rest of the crew won't be returning."_ _

__There's another of Spock's pensive pauses then, his fingers sweeping unconsciously over the console in a way that makes Jim's brain wander into dangerous territory. For almost five years now he's thought about those hands touching him, mapping him out, exploring him in that maddeningly methodical way of his, and now it's too late._ _

__"I did not ask to be retired from Starfleet," Spock finally says, breaking the long silence._ _

__It seems an odd change of topic to Jim. "You didn't?" he asks, unsure of what else he can say._ _

__"I asked for a temporary decommission in order to return to New Vulcan and attend to the recolonization efforts there."_ _

__They've had this discussion before, Jim knows it. But there's something off about it this time. "I know. You told me."_ _

__The eyebrow twitches slightly in that irritated fashion Spock usually only demonstrates when he's arguing with McCoy. "To retire from Starfleet would indicate that I do not plan to return."_ _

__He thinks about that for a moment. God forbid Spock ever just come out with what he wants to say rather than laying out a maze of riddles and roundabout statements. "Then ... you plan to come back, at some point?" he guesses._ _

__"I have planned nothing, as I am unsure of the progress on New Vulcan. But I wished to leave myself open to ... possibilities in the future." And he lingers on the word in a way that makes Jim's heart lurch._ _

__"Possibilities," Jim echoes wistfully. He shakes his head to clear it of all the melodrama before he gets out of the command chair, standing and brushing invisible dust from his trousers. "I guess we should get going."_ _

__And though Spock is under orders to escort him from the ship, he doesn't move from his stance next to the console, one hand still splayed over the buttons and levers there. "Spock?" Jim asks, moving closer._ _

__Another pause, and then he speaks again. "I must admit to a similar measure of hesitation to leave the ship," he says quietly. "It became a second home to me." A second family, Jim thinks, but he knows Spock would never admit to it out loud._ _

__"We can always take her out for one last joyride," he offers instead. And while he's mostly joking, they both know he'd do it if Spock really wanted to, no matter how poorly it might reflect on his professional record._ _

__"An ill-advised idea for several reasons," Spock returns, but he doesn't launch into the list of them like he does with McCoy or really, any other member of the crew. It's more of that unspoken communication between them that's so easy and effortless. Instead he lets his hand fall from the console to the chair in front of it, fingers dipping into a groove where Sulu has rested his neck against it for the past five years. "However tempting," he continues._ _

__Jim smiles, eyes lingering on the long fingers again. He had never pegged Spock to be so tactile, nor so attached to inanimate objects, but he's not about to voice how illogical it is because it's endearing, in its own way. It's a spell he doesn't want to break._ _

__But he needs to. He takes advantage of Spock's tactile mood, pressing an affectionate hand to his shoulder. "Come on, Spock. I've got Admirals who need their asses kissed and you've got a shuttle to catch."_ _

__Spock doesn't turn to follow him like he expects. Instead he presses those long, unreasonably warm fingers to the back of his hand, gaze focused on the viewscreen but his attention undeniably set on his Captain. "Jim." He hesitates then, almost as if he's embarrassed._ _

__"Spock," he returns easily, moving to stand in front of him, unwilling to release his hold on him and lose the sensations of those fingers on him._ _

__"I..." The eyebrows furrow a bit and he seems to be collecting himself. "I wished to express my gratitude." He makes eye contact then, as if willing Jim to hear whatever it is he hasn't said._ _

__Even with five years of practice translating Spock-ese into something more understandable, Jim still isn't sure what he's getting at now. "Gratitude?"_ _

__"I had not expected to make friends during my time aboard the Enterprise. I have been pleasantly surprised."_ _

__"Oh, well, if that's all," Jim chuckles, then sobers at the disapproving look on Spock's face. "C'mon, Spock, you know I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that it's not like it's a hardship to be your friend and I certainly don't need to be thanked for it."_ _

__Spock's mouth moves in that weird way like he wants to say something, then appears to think better of it. He gives a slight shake of his head instead, letting his fingers drop from Jim's hand and visibly steeling himself. "It is time we leave the ship," he says quietly._ _

__Jim nods, reluctantly releasing his hold on Spock's shoulder and sparing a moment to send off his report on the data PADD. They make their way in silence to the turbolift, walking in tandem down the hallway toward the transporter room._ _

__The silence isn't comfortable like it usually is; it isn't born from the simple enjoyment of each other's company. It's awkward and stilted, almost like it was back when they first began working together, and Jim inwardly cringes at the idea that this will be their last memory of one another until they see each other again._ _

__If they see each other again._ _

__There's no one in the transporter room, the majority of the crew having left shortly after they finished the docking procedures. It seems wrong to be down here without Scotty ranting about whatever might break next, or at the very least without a team of Scotty's engineers wincing over his latest diatribe about the dilithium crystals or the shields or whatever else he feels Jim has been battering lately. It's too quiet, especially given the sudden silence of his First Officer, and Jim's heart lurches again when he realizes how painfully lonely the next year or two is going to be while he finishes the training and procedures necessary to complete his promotion to Admiral._ _

__Their fingers brush for a moment as they work the transporter console to allow them to beam back to the star base, Spock stiffening at the gesture. He's done this before, always refuses to explain when it happens, so Jim covers the awkward moment by speaking up one last time. "As long as we're expressing gratitude when it isn't necessary, thanks for sticking with me through this. I know you didn't have to - hell, you could've been on the colony all this time instead of slogging through uncharted space with a load of illogical humans - but I'm grateful you did. You've-"_ _

__He doesn't get to finish his last sentence, or even think all the way through about what he wants to say, because suddenly he's being kissed with a fervor he's never experienced before. It knocks him right off his ass when he internalizes the fact that, holy shit, _Spock is kissing him_ , and he's grateful for the solid pressure of the transporter console digging into his backside. He leans bodily against it for support and finally works through the shock enough to kiss back._ _

__He's not a romantic, sure as hell isn't a sap. He has a well-deserved reputation as the master of one night stands and friendly fuck buddies. He doesn't believe in love at first sight or amazing first kisses, but somehow he's stumbled onto the latter. Which is not to say it isn't awkward in its own way, because Spock's got all that Vulcan strength pouring over him, and their teeth sometimes bump against each other with a weird grinding noise, and they're perhaps a little too desperate for contact to worry about things like finesse or where their hands should go or trying to breathe without sounding like a hoarse seal. He's been kissed by people who are far better at this than Spock seems to be - hell, _Jim's_ better at this and he knows it, but he's too overwhelmed to be skilled about it. He revels in the clashing of teeth, the awkwardness of long-fingered hands skimming over his chest and curling around his neck, the painful pressure of the console's corners digging into his ass._ _

__Jim's arms snake around Spock's waist without putting much thought into it, fingers digging into his backside and dragging him forward, closer, spreading his legs so one of Spock's thighs can give him the friction he's desperately craving. A tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him that now isn't the time for this, that Spock needs to leave for the colony, that fooling around with him now is the worst idea he could possibly have. He ignores it in favor of grabbing one of Spock's hands and sucking on his fingers._ _

__He gets the response he was aiming for, grateful now for all those sudden stiff-backed cues whenever their hands brushed. Spock must have incredibly sensitive fingers, because his eyes roll back in his head and he lets out a moan he never would have imagined him capable of. The pressure increases against his groin, Spock pressing into him and rocking them together steadily, his face flushed sage and his pupils blown dark and devastating._ _

__The _look_ on Spock's face, the eyes and the green cheeks and the slightly puffy lips slack and open in a low moan has Jim shuddering and panting like a damn teenager, releasing Spock's fingers with an obscene popping noise and latching onto his lips instead. In between less aggressive, but no less intense kisses, Spock starts whispering into his mouth, and when he finally collects the focus needed to really hear the word, he shudders again when he realizes Spock is chanting a quiet mantra of, "Jim, Jim, _Jim_." It develops a low purring quality to it the more desperate it becomes, and Jim can't decide whether he wants more of the chanting or more of their tongues curling together, and he makes an effort to soak up as much of both as he can._ _

__The rocking gets more desperate along with the raspy quality of Spock's voice, and the sharp bruise digging into Jim's ass isn't doing anything to distract from the pressure between his legs or the insistent rubbing against his thigh. It's building faster than he had realized, spiraling out of his control. He digs his fingers into the layers of stiff black cloth covering Spock's backside, urging him closer, faster, trying to keep him plastered up against him. The insistent rocking gains a jerky, unsteady quality to it, and Jim breaks from the kiss just in time to see Spock's face as he launches over the edge. The green blossoms over his cheeks to envelop most of his face and even those delicately pointed ears, eyes wide and shocked, mouth open in a nearly silent, "Oh..." of rumbled pleasure._ _

__It's the eyes that kill him. Jim's harbored a not-so-secret thing for a lot of Spock's characteristics, like the long fingers and the pointy ears and the rigid posture, but it's those too-human eyes that lock onto his own with a look of such complete openness and shameless wonder that he's gone moments after Spock, coming in his pants like an overstimulated kid. He should be embarrassed, or at least ashamed of his own lack of self-control, but with dark Vulcan eyes boring into him with unmasked emotion, he can't feel anything but a sense of completion and belonging._ _

__And love._ _

__He can't deny it to himself any longer, not when he's surrounded by such steady heat and that strange smell of incense that permeates Spock's clothing. His head drops to Spock's shoulder with a groan, closing his eyes and shuddering when he feels shaky lips pressing against his temple. The gesture, and its accompanying sense of sweetness, settles into his heart with a pang._ _

__They can't stay._ _

__Spock seems to realize it at the same time Jim does, because the easy warmth and tangle of the two of them is gone a moment later. They stand facing one another, the flush in Spock's face having tempered down to a faint staining of his cheeks, the warmth in his eyes gone beneath that usual mask of calm. "Jim," he says quietly, and his voice betrays him where his face does not._ _

__"I know," Jim returns, and he's not even sure what he means when he says it. He knows what they've shared? He knows they have to separate? He knows he'll never be the same? It all sounds so trite, so cliche, so ... far removed from what he wants to say instead. "I know, Spock," he repeats. He lifts a hand to press against the too-hot cheek, tempted to pull him in for another kiss, to trace the shape of those severe eyebrows, to caress the lines of those pointed ears. He lets his hand drop before he can give into the temptation, shaking his head. He tries to think of something, anything to say that will both give them closure and leave a window of opportunity open to the future._ _

__Spock precedes him. He lifts his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute, and in his native language says, "Dif-tor heh smusma."_ _

__Jim tries his best to copy the gesture. It is not, perhaps, what he wanted to say, but it will suffice. For now. "Live long and prosper, Spock."_ _

__Spock makes his way to the telepad alone, and Jim lets him, busying himself unnecessarily with the controls before allowing himself to look up one last time at the disappearing form of his First Officer. The face is frozen once more, the hair neatly in place, the clothing impeccable. His mouth twitches for a split second in that way that Jim has come to understand is his attempt to smile, and then he's gone in a series of swirling white lights._ _

__Jim slumps when he's alone again, elbows planted on the console and rubbing his face wearily. He thinks back to the dry, professional tone he used on Spock's evaluation, wishing that he hadn't sent it off yet. He can think of another three pages worth of accolades he could add now, but it's too late._ _

__He checks the controls one last time to ensure he hasn't knocked anything out of place, scruffing his hair back down and wincing at the mess in his trousers. He should change, he should go get his PADD, he should..._ _

__He should go. Now. So he does._ _


	2. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: "After going into pon farr and nearly dying, nu!Spock decides to go to New Vulcan and enter training for Kolinahr to prepare for his next Time and learn how to suppress it. Spock Prime is left to instruct the ancient rituals to nu!Spock and Spock Prime wants his counterpart to avoid his previous mistakes and not undertake the Kolinahr, instead just go to Jim and admit his feelings for his captain and bond with him during his next pon farr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - this chapter is basically pages and pages of Spock talking to himself. I decided to differentiate between the two by using "elder" and "younger." I apologize if it comes off as annoying but I couldn't think of any other way to deal with the problem, since no one actually calls the older version Spock Prime to his face - it's just how he's referred to in the credits. Hope it isn't too distracting.

It is not the Vulcan he remembers, but it is illogical that it would be.

Ambassador Spock found this planet himself, went through hours of painstaking research to find one with the adequate climate, geography, and size to support a colony of survivors as they tried to rebuild. But New Vulcan is different from his home planet in ways that cannot be ignored: there's a bright silvery moon where previously there was none, and the rains come far more often here than they ever did on Vulcan, though not enough to change the landscape from its natural desert form. The heat, though, is a constant, one for which the Ambassador is grateful. It's a comfort, something to center him when he answers the summons of Ambassador Sarek.

Sarek does not know his true history. He has told everyone in the colony to call him Selek. The loss of their homeworld makes research on his background impossible, and his people are so caught up in the rebuilding process that it seems no one will ever question it anyway. He keeps to himself when possible, assigns himself to projects only if he can be sure he won't be working with Sarek.

Or with Spock.

Spock appeared at the colony over a year ago and has avoided him with a kind of skill he finds borderline insulting. He knows enough about time travel not to meddle in his younger counterpart's affairs unless it's absolutely necessary. Still, he's curious about his decision to relocate here, wonders why no one from Starfleet has come to see him.

Mostly he wonders where Jim is. But he tries not to wonder too often.

Willfully setting those thoughts aside, he enters Sarek's office. It is eerily similar to the one his father had back in a time where Vulcan was never destroyed, and he takes a moment to appreciate the convergences of the timelines, how they match up in so many different ways. "Ambassador Sarek."

"Ambassador Selek," Sarek returns. He looks so _young_ , and it occurs to Spock not for the first time that his father is chronologically younger than he is himself. "Please, sit."

He settles in one of the stiff-backed chairs, stopping himself from wincing at the minor twinge it sets off in his back. He had become too used to expressing minor things such as pain, irritation, even humor. Other Vulcans would consider those reactions a direct result of too much time spent in the presence of humans, and it's been a challenge getting his controls back in place.

"I have a favor I must ask of you," Sarek continues without preamble, "though you are in no way required to grant it."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "What is this favor?"

"As you know, my son has left Starfleet so that he may assist with the rebuilding process."

He nods. "I believe it is due mostly to his efforts that the Vulcan Science Academy has been rebuilt so quickly. Quite impressive, given the short amount of time he has been with the colony."

"Indeed. However, his desire to help rebuild our race is not the reason for his return, or at least not the sole reason." He inclines his head toward Spock. "I understand you underwent training in the kolinahr discipline."

Humiliating enough that the discipline failed him, it's made worse having to admit to it to his own father. Twice, now. "I made an attempt," he returns as diplomatically as he can. "I discovered toward the end of the process that it was not the correct path for me. However, I did complete all the necessary steps for achieving kolinahr; I then chose not to fully embrace it."

Sarek nods, steepling his fingers in such a way that Spock suddenly recognizes where he acquired the gesture. "My son has informed me of his intent to follow the discipline. Although there are several Vulcan elders who have successfully undergone the ritual, I feel it would be more beneficial to him to learn of the process from one who willingly chose not to finish it."

That throws him. Sarek is right - there are at least four or five elders Spock can think of who have attained kolinahr and who could guide his younger counterpart to do the same. That Sarek sought him out specifically because he failed the ritual is a shock. "May I ask why you find my lack of adherence to the discipline to be an advantage when teaching it to another?"

Sarek remains silent for a moment, but it's a silence Spock recognizes as a pensive one, so he waits. "You will undoubtedly attribute my reasoning to what is perhaps an unhealthy amount of regard toward human sensibilities. However, I must always keep in mind that my son is half human as well as half Vulcan. I wish to show him both sides of the same coin."

It's a human idiom Amanda taught him: Spock recognizes it because he reinterpreted it the same way when she said it to him in his youth. Referring to two sides of the same coin seems needlessly divisive; both sides of the same coin suggests comparison rather than stark contrast. "I will guide him to the best of my abilities."

"You have my gratitude, Ambassador Selek."

*******

He reorganizes his quarters such that his meditation corner will be comfortable for both of them. His advanced age means he cannot sit unsupported for long periods of time without his joints aching, so he arranges his cushions against the wall and those meant for his younger counterpart across from him. He has incense burning in all four corners of the room, the only light in the room emanating from the large window along the eastern wall. He keeps the ambiance easy, soothing, calm.

It does nothing to ease the shock in the younger Spock's eyes when he arrives and realizes who his mentor will be. It's such a naked human expression that the elder wonders if he has even the slightest chance of successfully attaining kolinahr. But the younger covers the emotional gaffe quickly, the stoic Vulcan mask sliding back into place. "I should perhaps have requested a specific elder as a guide," he says by way of greeting. "He could not have known why you cannot do it for me."

"There is no reason I cannot help you," he returns. "Our father knows that I have undergone the ritual before."

"And failed," the younger points out. It's not intended to be an insult; it is the truth.

"Yes, I failed," he admits easily. "But my failure came in the form of a refusal to complete the ritual. I was not rejected due to any shortcoming or mistake on my part."

"For what reason would you guide me, then, if you felt it was not the correct path for you to take? As we are essentially the same person, I must therefore assume that you do not intend - or indeed, even believe it is possible - for me to succeed."

He has considered this. He knows that on some level, his counterpart is correct; he truly does believe that he is better off having retained his capacity for emotion rather than purging it. A part of him wants to prevent this version of him from making the same mistake he almost did. But... "As you say, we are indeed essentially the same person. However, I also know that we are on different paths. The decisions I made in my own timeline may or may not serve you in your own. I am therefore willing to supply you with the knowledge you need to make what you feel is the right decision for you."

The younger Spock processes that. The elder has a flashback of Jim making off-handed remarks about, 'Watching those Vulcan gears turn,' whenever Spock found himself deep in thought. He begins to understand the metaphor. "Your proposal seems logical," the young man finally accedes with a slight incline of his head.

The elder Spock gestures to the meditation area he arranged earlier, and they make themselves comfortable. Each sits with his legs crossed and his back straight (though the elder's is supported by the wall). They say nothing for a few minutes, breathing in the incense, unconsciously mimicking one another until their breath comes in tandem, slow and relaxed.

The elder speaks first. "May I ask your reason for wishing to attain kolinahr? I do not care to assume it was the same as my own."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "What was your reasoning?"

He hesitates. He does not wish to influence the younger man's decisions by explaining his own. He settles on the most vague kind of response he can. "I felt unable to control my emotions to a satisfactory degree. I had hoped that by purging them, they would not be such a distraction."

"I have ... similar concerns," he admitted after a pause. He visibly steels himself as he continues. "Were you aware that I visited the colony approximately six years ago?"

"I was not. No one spoke of your return." And they would have, if it had been widely known - Spock was not only the son of a well-respected ambassador, he was also a hero in his own right due to his involvement during the Narada incident.

"It was kept private. I returned because I became one of the first torai-tikh."

It's the Vulcan word for 'catalyst,' a term appropriated when a startling percentage of the Vulcan youth began entering pon farr much earlier in their development than they should have. The elder Spock's first pon farr occurred when he was well into his thirties. Since the establishment of New Vulcan, pon farr had occurred in several men and women in their early twenties, and even in a young woman who was barely seventeen when she fell victim to the plak'tow. It seemed to be a biological reaction to the sudden diminished population, an insatiable urge to reproduce and restore their numbers.

If his younger counterpart was here six years ago to attend to the far-too-early onset of pon farr, that means he only has a few months until the next one overtakes him. He has a sudden understanding of why he might choose kolinahr as an alternate path. "You are not bonded. I assume you were aided through your first by means of violence?"

"The healers on Vulcan were testing a chemical compound designed to suppress plak'tow in the torai-tikh. I became one of their earliest test subjects. It does not suppress the blood fever completely, but through a combination of the compound and intense meditation, I was able to survive."

It is, of course, impressive that the Vulcans have finally found a way to ease the pain of plak'tow, even if it's a solution that only works for the unfortunate early onset cases. Despite that, Spock is surprised that the young man offered himself as a willing test subject. "Why would you consent to such experimentation when you could have entered a kal-if-fee instead?"

Spock gives him a look that gives nothing away, yet still manages to seem reproachful despite the lack of expression on his face. "T'Pring did not survive the implosion of Vulcan."

He wonders if Stonn suffered the same fate, then decides it is better not to ask. "It will take time to complete the training necessary to attain kolinahr," he says instead. "It will be necessary to explore the emotions you feel have control over you and to deal with them accordingly."

He doesn't so much as blink at the change in topic. "I have approximately eight months remaining until the blood fever will begin again." And for as much as Vulcans value precision, it is the one thing in their nature that defies it. The seven year rule is accurate to a point, but cannot be predicted beyond a two to three week bracket of hypothesized time.

"Eights months is sufficient," the elder Spock decides. He hopes rather than believes it to be true.

*******

"Nyota Uhura," the elder Spock murmurs during their first session. They're back in the meditation area again, legs crossed, breathing in tandem, hands resting palm to palm against one another to allow their touch-telepathy to access one another's thoughts. The elder Spock cracks one eye open to take in the sight of the younger Spock raising one eyebrow over his own closed eyes. He represses the smile, closing his eyes again and returning to the place of dark meditative calm.

"Nyota," the younger Spock repeats, prompting him. The elder can't help a sense of oddness at the name; he only ever referred to the one in his timeline by her last name, and using the first seems overly intimate. But so it is in this timeline.

There's a mild sense of guilt coming through where their palms are touching. "I had been under the impression that your relationship with her went beyond the purely professional."

"Your impression was correct."

"Then why did you not attempt to bond with her during your first pon farr? Since you could not have bonded with T'Pring, you would have had the right to choose a new bondmate."

The guilt increases, the sensation weighing heavy and sour in their lightly joined minds. "Our minds were not compatible."

He can sense the not-quite-truth in the statement. "You attempted to meld with her?"

Spock pauses; he apparently hadn't expected to be caught so easily. "She was not comfortable with the concept of sharing her thoughts with another. I did not press the issue."

The sudden flash of intuition is due less to Spock's judgment of his own character and more to the blurry images of memory slowly bleeding into him. "You also did not inform her that the joining of minds was vital to your well-being. You parted ways with her without explaining yourself."

The sour feeling increases between them. "I did not wish to force her to engage in a telepathic bond when she was so distressed by the concept."

"You caused her pain." It is not an attempt to shame him, but rather a statement of truth.

The guilt increases tenfold when the sentiment is spoken aloud, and he senses rather than sees the younger man wince. "She has encouraged me not to overthink the matter."

"A common human wish not to discuss issues that make them uncomfortable."

"It seems illogical to discuss the matter when it has been dealt with and the friendship has been restored."

"It is perfectly logical to attend to an issue which causes you to feel guilt. This is a key component of kolinahr - to attend to the emotions which hold some measure of power over an individual, to acknowledge their existence and then to carefully set them aside."

"As I have done in regards to the matter with Nyota."

"You have failed, then, because I can sense the guilt pouring from you even as we speak."

The verbalization of that failure causes a sharp dagger of anger through their minds, and suddenly the brief link is gone when the younger man retracts his hand. When Spock opens his eyes, it is to meet the glare of his counterpart, who gets up without another word and exits the room.

'Well,' he thinks to himself as he slowly pulls himself to a standing position, wincing at the twinge in his knees, 'that was far too easy to have actually been successful.'

Exactly eleven days later it appears he was correct. When he enters his room that evening, Spock is there again, already seated in his meditation area as if he never left. "I caused her pain," he says quietly. "I chose to end the relationship and in doing so, I lost the regard of a woman I deeply respect and admire."

He says nothing at first, making his way to the spot opposite his younger counterpart, willing his face into a mask as he slowly kneels on the floor and then arranges himself into their usual seated position. At the younger Spock's raised eyebrow, he explains, "I feel my advanced age is beginning to affect my mobility."

"It is not necessary to meditate in this precise spot. Perhaps an alternate location-"

He waves him off. "I am comfortable here." It's not entirely true, but the discomfort comes in the arrangement of his limbs. When he's seated, he relaxes his back against the solid wall of his room, letting out a deep breath and trying for that meditative calm that the young man seems to have already embraced. Several deep breaths and they're in tandem again. "You are no longer friends with Uhura?" he prompts him, their hands pressing together once more in a muted mind link.

"We remain on amicable terms, but the relationship has been strained ever since we parted ways."

The elder presses his palm more firmly to the younger's, ready now to begin the first stages of the purge. "This pain was a necessary pain. You could not have bonded with one who would not take part in a telepathic link with you, nor could you have indefinitely repressed your need to experience her mind. To do so would have invited her death during pon farr."

The loss ebbs over the guilt in Spock's mind, slow tides upon his consciousness. "Agreed," he says simply.

"Know this. Accept this. In time she will have forgiven you fully, perhaps even decided to bond with another."

Some measure of amusement and perhaps even relief threads its way through the other emotions. "She has already done so."

"Then you must purge it from your mind. You have caused her pain, but she has moved past that. As there is no way to change what has occurred between you, you must bind it closely and let it free."

The place where their palms touch starts to heat with the effort it's taking Spock to do as he's told. The elder closes his eyes and tries to help guide those emotions as subtly as he can. The tide of guilt continues to wash over him in steady waves, sometimes dissipating, sometimes growing stronger as Spock realizes that he's about to let go of those feelings. He seems to almost panic when they begin to ebb, seeking them out just as they begin to fade as if desperate to keep them close to him.

The elder finds it in him to speak once more. "Are you truly certain that kolinahr is the path you wish to take?"

The pain in his voice is evident, but his resolve remains firm. "I am certain."

His actions bely his words, but the elder accepts them anyway. He moves his hand to the young man's temple, and he doesn't even have to speak the words before he's sluicing into a mind identical in so many ways to his own.

This is not, technically, part of the kolinahr training. Those who wish to follow the tradition must learn to control their emotions on their own, must be able to compartmentalize and dispose of their passions. It must come second-nature, like breathing. But Spock is not a full-blooded Vulcan and neither is this younger version, and while he was able after long periods of training to push those feelings aside, he was in his fifties when he managed it. This one has only barely entered his thirties, and between his youth and his hybrid bloodline, he could use the assistance.

Spock's thoughts come in a stream of jumbled consciousness, the chaos increasing with the continued attempts to let go of his guilt and the sudden reach for it when it fades: _cannot let it go, hurt her, treasure her friendship, grateful for her love when I needed it most, pain for the loss, pain for the hurt, must retain it or I shall forget-_

 _You will not forget._ His thoughts are clear, free of the cluttered thought process of the younger man. He chose not to attain kolinahr, but the training allowed him the kind of razor-sharp focus he had been lacking before then. _You will accept. You will let go. You will retain the memories, but not the emotions. You will remember as a scholar remembers, with detachment rather than feeling._

The chaos eases then, apparently finding comfort in the fact that the life he lived previously will not be lost to him. It will simply be free of the conflicting emotions that have had so much power over him. He breathes deeply, the jumbled thoughts giving way to that place of dark, meditative calm once more. It is as though a windstorm has dissipated, leaving silence and blankness behind.

 _Uhura_ , the elder Spock murmurs into his mind.

The dark place remains, the silence unbroken. He remembers, but he is not affected.

"My congratulations, Spock," he says out loud, removing his hand from his temple so he won't sense the bittersweetness of the victory. "You have taken your first successful step toward your goal."

*******

After that, they meet sporadically to deal with the heaviest of Spock's emotions. Sometimes he'll arrive in Spock's quarters the day after they've had some measure of success; sometimes it takes him upwards of three or four weeks to collect himself and return. Some of the emotions are harder than others: it takes him perhaps an hour to deal with the illogical feeling of misplaced blame when Chekov failed to beam his mother to the Enterprise, but it takes three days to decipher why it bothers him so much when McCoy needles him. It becomes the second occasion where the elder Spock finds it necessary to meld with him, showing him times when his own McCoy insulted him or bantered with him. It was only when he showed him scenes of McCoy giving Jim the same treatment that he seemed to relax enough to deal with those irrational feelings of hurt and disdain.

It does not escape Spock that feeding him images of Jim settles him. But it isn't time for that yet.

"Our father," he says one day, four months into the process. They're getting to the last and deepest of Spock's emotions, and he can't imagine they'll be at this any longer than another month before Spock completes the purge. He hopes that by addressing the three most important people in their lives, that he may be able to change Spock's mind. Sarek seems the logical choice as the first.

It unnerves him to know that it may not be possible to sway his younger counterpart. He never expected so much dedication to this cause at such a young age. Sometimes he wonders if they truly are the same person.

The younger Spock just nods in agreement, closing his eyes and raising his hand. The elder presses their palms together, prepared for that desperate need for approval, the shame he feels at never being truly Vulcan, the disappointment he still feels even now.

It isn't there. Or rather, it is, but it's stemming from him.

The younger Spock's interpretation of Sarek comes as something of a shock. With the link functioning as a faint, delicate thing between them, he can't pull entire memories from his younger counterpart, but he catches little snippets and quotes from his entire life: _child of two worlds, I am grateful for this, marrying your mother was logical, I married her because I loved her, emotions run deep within our species, which path will you choose?_

The elder breaks contact with a start, trying to reconcile this milder version of Sarek with the strict, distant father he once knew. "You have his approval," he says quietly.

"You did not," Spock returns, and there's disbelief and perhaps even sympathy in his voice.

"No." He knows, on some level or another, that Sarek loved him in his own way. He rarely showed it, and he only did so towards the end of his life; the time he chased down Jim Kirk looking for Spock's katra, the time he requested the fal-tor-pan when his body was recovered and returned to Vulcan, the time he arranged to be in San Francisco when his crew was put on trial for their charges even though Spock himself had been considered blameless. He remembers these things, treasures those memories, but his recollection of Sarek will be forever colored by those years of bitter disappointment and silence between them when he first joined Starfleet.

"I am unsure if I am able to assist in the purging of your emotions in this matter," he continues, wanting to be truthful in this. In all honesty, he wants nothing more than to delve into that younger mind and extract all the affection and approval he can from it, tempered though it is by Vulcan standards and tradition.

The younger Spock processes this. "I believe I may be able to attend to the matter on my own. Perhaps all that will be required of you is to ensure I have purged my emotions correctly and completely."

His heart aches at the idea of purposely discarding that sense of fatherly pride and affection. He spent much of his life laboring to earn approval from Sarek, and this version has achieved so much more than that. It is tempting to send him off to another elder.

But there are still two more people Spock must address, and there is no one better qualified to speak of them than himself.

He nods, unable to descend into his meditative trance while he watches his younger self do so. He takes in the composed expression, the relaxation at the corners of his mouth as he steadies his breathing, the low hum in the air that he associates with telepathy. Now it's the sound of Spock meticulously ridding himself of his emotions, of the last attachment he has with living family.

He cannot even count it as a bittersweet victory when Spock takes his hand and presses it to his temple. There's nothing to be proud of when he enters Spock's mind and finds it a dark and desolate wasteland. _Sarek_ , he imposes his voice upon the younger's mind. _Father._

It is not an accomplishment seeing himself betray no reaction to the words.

He remains seated for long hours after Spock leaves, unable to keep his mind from wandering to the father he never knew, the acceptance he had to fight decades to earn, and the ease with which his younger self dismisses it all.

Not for the first time in his many, many years of existence, he feels impossibly old.

*******

Six days pass until Spock arrives in his quarters again. The elder has a sneaking suspicion this has less to do with his younger self's readiness for another session, and more to do with giving the elder time to recover from the experience of an entirely different Sarek. He's not sure if he finds the respite to be respectful or patronizing.

It takes less than a minute for them to attain that state of dark, steady calm now, takes no effort at all to sense one another through the palms of their hands and the pads of their fingers. The younger Spock's mind is no longer the wild jumble of thought and emotion it once was, but a place of cool stability. The elder can't help a sense of wonder when he realizes how far they've come, how close Spock is to his ultimate goal.

"Our mother. A-"

And he doesn't even get her full name out before the cool stability shatters. He senses rage and grief so raw that it slices through him before their hands jerk away from one another, breaking the link before their emotions bleed into each other.

"No." He has never heard that voice so broken before.

"The basis of kolinahr is a mind devoid of passions and emotions. You cannot attain it unless you have moved past your grief."

"I have already experienced the loss of my mother once. I will not do it again."

"She will not be fully lost to you," he tries to console him. "You will always retain the memory of her."

"She was human. The memory of her is inseparable from the emotions associated with her."

"Were you fully human, I would agree. But you are half-Vulcan, and you must have the capability to separate the memory from the emotion if you wish to attain your goal."

"I do not want to." He says it so quietly that it's almost inaudible, his too-human eyes gutting the older man.

Once again, he is struck by the differences between them. The younger Spock has the experience of an absent mother and a steadfast father. The elder has almost the opposite, his father a distant entity to him until just before Amanda passed away of natural causes well into her eighties. He had his mother for all the years of her short human lifespan, and he realizes now what an incredible blessing that was - realizes it only because he sees the effects of her absence on her still-grieving son. Spock needs that human element, and with the loss of his mother, this Spock is apparently choosing to ease the pain by attempting to dispose of it.

"Should you choose not to complete the kolinahr ritual, I will make no attempt to dissuade you. This is a choice only you can make for yourself."

The younger man's breathing starts to ease into a more relaxed rhythm, the pain in his eyes dissipating, but the lines around his mouth deepening. After long moments of thoughtful silence, he speaks. "Was she still alive when you went through the ritual?"

"She was." She had been disappointed in his sudden desire to purge what she thought of as his human side, but she had supported him nonetheless. He will never forget the smug joy in her face months later when he told her he was leaving the discipline to join the Enterprise crew once again.

"I considered the kolinahr ritual shortly before I rejected my place at the Vulcan Science Academy." And Spock can't quite believe that he wanted to go through that at an even younger age than he's attempting now. "I wanted to assure her that I in no way meant any insult toward my human mother or the human aspects she passed to me. She told me that no matter what path I chose, I would have a proud mother."

It sounds like Amanda, and though Spock lost her decades ago he feels a sudden pang of loss in his heart. She was a key component of his humanity, and though he had her longer than this younger version did, he still misses her. "She was ... much the same in my timeline," he finally manages to say.

The younger Spock opens his mouth to reply, then closes it after a moment of deliberation, shaking his head as if chastising himself. The elder considers the gestures, wonders what he might have wanted to say.

And then in a rare flash of perhaps too-human intuition, he understands. He raises his hand again, not in the traditional gesture they've been using before now but with the fingers spread as a sign of openness. "If you desire, I would not be opposed to sharing my memories of her with you."

He knows the difference between Spock's pensive expression and the decisive one. It's the latter that appears now, though there's a significant pause before he says anything. Spock pretends not to notice the moment of false consideration. "I would appreciate it," he says quietly, taking the elder's hand and leading it to the psi points at his temple.

He flows into Spock's mind with a familiarity that's almost unprecedented, the ease with which he can join their minds rivaling only one other individual. Before he can follow that particular thread of thought too closely, he remembers the task at hand, pulling as many memories of his mother as he can so they can be shared. Unlike his younger counterpart, the memories come as a series of sharp, organized images: the journey to Babel when his parents first visited the Enterprise and the affectionate teasing his mother employed when McCoy asked about his childhood, the constant predictability of the waves she would send him every few weeks to ask after his well-being, the joy of seeing her when he left Starfleet and returned to Vulcan. There are other images, too, but he pulls back from the younger Spock's mind just before he reveals too much about his re-education or the necessity of embracing his human side.

The younger Spock opens his mouth to speak, but the elder stops him with a gesture. "Do not ask me to explain the last. It stemmed from an event that does not appear likely to happen again in this timeline." He has checked - there is a Carol Marcus in the Starfleet databanks, but no sign of a David Marcus. She is stationed on a Federation starship, not at a research facility. There is also no record of the Enterprise having made contact with the USS Botany Bay. He hopes, based on these facts, that they will be spared those trials.

Spock nods and tries to speak again. "All this will be lost to me should I choose to continue the ritual."

He considers his response carefully. "The joy of her, the comfort, the feelings of love and loss and grief - those will be lost to you," he affirms. "But the image of her, your connection to her, the memory of how much she loved you - that will not. You will purge only your feelings toward her and every other individual you know. You will not lose her face, her voice, her actions."

Amanda is one of the two individuals that the elder Spock believed would weaken the younger's resolve. If this younger Spock is going to choose not to continue the ritual, it will be during this session or the next one.

His heart drops when Spock nods slowly, some deeply buried part of him screaming in protest. This is their mother. How can he possibly be prepared to let go of her when he's lost her once already? Why would he choose to give up his humanity when it has shaped him for thirty years?

He tries to quiet those thoughts as he watches Spock go into his meditative trance again. His face isn't calm like it has been before; it's clear he isn't as confident about his decision when it involves one more way to separate him from his mother. The eyebrows knit together for long minutes before relaxing, and moments later they'll be furrowed again. The lines around the mouth grow deeper and more troubled, easing only when he seems to concentrate on doing so.

He isn't sure how long it takes before the younger Spock's posture relaxes more completely. It could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been half the day gone before he succeeded. It takes several more minutes for the elder Spock to work up the motivation to touch the psi points at his temple, the dark blankness in the younger's mind making him uneasy.

It's not as stable as it has been in the past. It's clear he had to fight to achieve this level of meditative calm; he can feel that rigid control shifting and shuddering at the edges. _Mother_ , he thinks into the void.

It shifts again, and he can feel the smothering pressure of the younger man trying to keep calm amidst all the memories and feelings the word conjures for him. For a moment he seems apt to lose the battle, then the darkness solidifies.

Spock pulls his fingers back, not quite collapsing back against the wall. "It is not fully controlled," he says, and he's surprised at the hoarseness in his own voice. "But I believe in time you will conquer this."

He is exhausted enough that he sets aside his dignity for the night and allows his younger counterpart to pull him up from his place on the floor. He surprises himself again at the sudden need to hold onto the other man for fear of losing his balance, righting himself after a long moment of dizziness and fatigue.

"Are you unwell?"

The elder Spock shakes the question off with a wave of his hand. "I am in need of rest," he says, neatly sidestepping the question. And before the young man takes his leave, he adds, "I will need some time before we meet again."

He nods. "Will a week be sufficient?"

Spock knows that the eight month goal is coming up on them fast. Impossible to predict precisely when pon farr will overtake him again, but they should still have a small window of time to play with. "Two would be preferable."

"Very well." With a respectful bow of his head, the younger Spock exits the room.

The elder lowers himself to his bed with a groan. He feels utterly drained, his head pounding and his joints aching. He will have two weeks to gather his energy, his memories, before attending to their last order of business. He has two weeks to remember, to grieve for his loss again, to fully embrace the emotions he has kept locked away for decades.

Two years would not be enough to gather all that he needs. But he will try.

 

*******

 

"Shall I call for a healer?"

They're in their usual spot, cross-legged and facing one another. The younger Spock has his hand raised between them, ready to link whenever the elder is ready.

The elder will never be ready. He keeps trying to focus on his breathing, on keeping it in time with the younger man, tries to focus on his heartbeat or the heat pervading the room or the blackness behind his eyes when he closes them, or ... frankly, he's trying to focus on anything but the memories he's been flooding himself with for the past two weeks.

It isn't working.

His breathing is erratic, his heart stuttering at an awkward pace he can't follow. If he keeps his eyes closed too long he sees memories so sweet that they're a physical pain in his chest. The best years of his life are only a whisper away, and the knowledge tears at him.

"I am not ill," he finally answers the question, but it tastes like a lie in his throat. His head has been killing him. His body feels like it's falling apart. His mind feels stretched or drained or blown to pieces, he's not sure which metaphor fits best.

"You are not well."

He lets out a long breath, grasping for that razor sharp focus he honed during his own kolinahr training. "No," he says quietly, rubbing at his temples in an effort to soothe the chaos in his mind.

"Perhaps a few more days of-"

"No," he cuts him off. "There will never be enough time to share all that I wish to." He opens his eyes to take in the younger man.

The questions he's been asking speak of some measure of concern, but it hasn't been audible in the voice and his face is an impenetrable mask. He's come so far in his journey; he's on the precipice of success, and it is that more than anything that helps the elder Spock clear his mind. He must focus. He must ensure that this younger version of him isn't about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

He presses a slightly shaky palm to the steady one before him. The deep serenity washes over him, soothing some of his nerves, relaxing him enough to address the final step. "Captain James T. Kirk." A rumble echoes through the younger Spock's cool, dark calm. There's something coming alive under that rigid control, and it gives him hope. "What is he to you?"

"My Captain," is the first answer, followed closely by, "My friend." And there's something underneath those words, something secret and desperate and mercilessly repressed.

It is exactly what the elder Spock was hoping for.

"T'hy'la," he murmurs, and the word brings with it a rush of emotion he cannot hope to control, years of easy familiarity and affection and love rushing through him like a waterfall.

The younger Spock jerks his hand away as though burned, the passivity in his face gone in the wash of surprise and something that looks dangerously close to pure want. He tries to ask a question, can't even get a word out, just looks at him with that dazed, hungry expression.

"If you will permit me," the elder Spock continues, bracing himself, "there are memories I would like to share with you."

"Your memories are not my own," the younger replies, too quickly, too defensive. "Events that occurred in your timeline are not guaranteed to occur in my own."

"No, they are not. But that makes them no less important to the path you have set before you." He has to convince him of this, has to gather every piece of logic he can. "My life differs from yours in many ways. But I would like to share it with you regardless, so that you may see the possibilities before you."

"You do not wish for me to continue the ritual. You desire my failure."

"My hope is that you choose the path that will serve you best. I ask only to share my path with you. I do not demand that you follow it with me."

"But you wish it."

He can't deny the truth. "Yes, I wish you would make the same decision I did. However, I also accept that it may not be possible. All I ask is your consideration."

There's an awful silence then, and Spock is hit with the sudden realization that he may fail, here and now. He may not even get the opportunity to make his case.

Slowly, stretched over an eternity of seconds, the younger Spock bows his head forward. "I will share with thee," he says, his syntax slipping into a Standard translation of High Vulcan. It's used only in formal rituals or between close relatives or lovers, and its use is not lost on the elder Spock.

He takes one last moment to gather the most important of his memories, to organize them in such a way that their significance won't be lost on the young man. Shaky fingers lift and press to his temple.

_His own first pon farr, and the challenge T'Pring issues when he arrives to consummate the bond. He protests her champion, begs T'Pau to let his captain go, and minutes later he's lost his mind and he's trying to destroy him. There is nothing in him but the burning of his blood and the desire to win, to kill, to take what is rightfully his. The horror when he realizes what he has done. The bleeding out of his fever, the lust replaced with shame and sorrow. The ship, his last, best home, speaking to the doctor and interrupted by the golden glow of his captain. Elation, confusion, joy, love. He is whole once again._

_Prepared to sacrifice his life for the captain's more times than he can count. The amoeba that had to be scanned from the inside. The deadly flowers on Gamma Trianguli VI. The USS Botany Bay, and the Reliant after her. The radiation pouring through Engineering. The sensation of organs shutting down and skin slowly melting from his face. Sick, dying, alone. And then, not alone. The ship, out of danger. Do not grieve. Have been and always shall be. Death is a waiting game, one I shall play until we are together again._

_Alive. Mindless. Mind joined with body, and yet still mindless. Unfamiliar faces. Unfamiliar family. Unfamiliar existence, but for the twinge at the back of his mind. Jim. Your name is Jim. Yes._

_Chess games, fingers brushing. Strategic planning that could mean life or death for the entire crew. Drinks in the rec room with Uhura's sweet voice in the background. Shore leave, an opportunity to relax, to consume one another at their leisure. Starfleet, all protocol and regulations and flaunting them behind closed doors. Fingers tangled in his. Mind passing easily into another's. Lips, tongue, bare flesh and dark voices. Willing to sacrifice. Willing to join. Desperate to join. T'hy'la: friend, brother, lover._

_Blackness. Taking all that he's known, all he has been, and purging it from his being. His love, passion, desire, grief, terror, fury, hope, friendship. Take it in, compartmentalize, dissect, dispose. Unnecessary. Dangerous. He is one with Vulcan, one with a global consciousness of logic, knowledge, serenity. No more fire in the blood. No more reaching of the mind. He is a unit of self-sufficiency, his needs attended to by the blackness and the calm._

_A voice, stretching across the galaxy. It searches. It wants. It feels. Concentration broken. Path blocked. Your destiny lies elsewhere. Your destiny is with him. Reunion. Realization. A hand pressed to his, a heart returned to him. The greatest happiness he has ever known._

_Decades of that unshakable bond. Hair gone gray, face lined with experience, waistline expanding. Still beloved, for the mind is the same and the heart ever fonder. Shared quarters, shared bed, shared lifetime. He loves. He is loved._

_He is lost. Gone in an instant, lightyears apart. Just a ceremonial run, Spock. Not going anywhere. Back in a week. Gone in an instant. Mind reeling. No body. No katra. Nothing._

Spock does not so much break the link as escape consciousness for a time. When he finally opens his eyes, the dim light of the room stabs at him and the expression on the younger Spock's face would disqualify him from kolinahr if another elder was present to see him. He hovers over the older man, concerned, terrified, confused.

"My apologies," the elder Spock offers, his voice a hoarse, broken mess. He hadn't known the meld would do this to him, hadn't known the sharing would shake his foundations, rattle him to the core.

"Unnecessary," the younger returns, his voice nearly as shaken. He looks ready to bolt from the room, presumably to find a healer.

The elder grabs his arm with a strength he would never have dreamed he was still capable of. "I escaped. I did not wish to trap him within a bond when he was not ready. I did not wish to destroy him during my next pon farr. I attempted to rectify the problem by attaining kolinahr. I have never been so grateful for my own failure."

The younger Spock's hands press to his temples, cradling his head, and he realizes for the first time that it feels apt to break apart. "I thank you for your gift," he says solemnly, and his face is slowly easing back to the stoic expression he had earlier. "I must meditate on all you have told me." He swallows with some difficulty. "I do not know yet which path I will take. But if I should choose to continue...?" He trails off, unsure of himself.

The elder feels something in him shift and break. He has not failed, but neither has he succeeded. If the gift of his memory is not enough to convince this younger version of himself that he is making a mistake, he cannot count on further meditation helping him to make that decision. He lets out a shuddering, defeated sigh. "You must find one of the other kolinahr adepts to help you. I can guide you no further."

A small nod, the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. "I will call for a healer."

"Yes." His skull is breaking apart, he is certain of it. Before Spock can move to make the call, he fists his hand in the younger man's robes. "Ask for Sarek as well. I have a favor I must ask of him." And he drifts into the blissful black of unconsciousness again.

*******

The house is a ramshackle, haphazard collection of solid wood and peeling paint. A collection of fruit trees dot the landscape in a way that is anything but planned. He inhales the scent of young apples and overly ripe peaches, and he feels the knots in his back ease somewhat at the familiar smell.

More paint chips off the door when he bangs his fist on it, little flakes of red drifting to the porch, aimless with the lack of a breeze in the sweltering humidity and heat of this place.

"Couldn't be the pizza guy," comes the gruff voice from inside. He smiles at the familiarity.

"Maybe he finally stopped getting lost at the fork at Creekside," comes a younger, sweeter voice. His smile turns into an earsplitting grin when the door opens, and a gangly young girl with a mop of brown hair and sharp hazel eyes lets out a squeal that about busts his eardrums. "Uncle Jim!" she shrieks, launching herself at him.

She's too big to scoop up the same way he used to - she's not a baby anymore - but he grabs her around the waist and swings her in a circle the same way he did when she was little, and the gasping squirming giggles sound very much the same. "Good god, Jo, you must've sprouted three feet since the last time I saw you! What are you now, seventeen? Eighteen?"

"I'm eleven and you know it, Uncle Jim. Better come inside so Dad can chew you out before dinner."

"Did I just hear you say-" McCoy stops himself when he makes it to the doorway, gaping at the visitor on his front porch who is currently occupied with scruffing up as much of Joanna's hair as he can without getting slugged in the shoulder. "What in god's name are _you_ doing here?"

"Missed you too, Bones."

"Aren't you supposed to be kissing ass up in San Francisco?"

"Language, Bones. The poor girl's ears."

"I've heard him say worse," Joanna points out, her grin nearly as wide as Jim's.

"I don't doubt it." He smooths her hair back down with a fond smile, looking back at his best friend. "So, you gonna invite me in for dinner so I can explain myself?"

"This better be good," McCoy mutters, holding the door open for the two of them.


	3. That Starry Expanse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: "I want Kirk to be there in Prime's final days."

"So what are you doing way the hell out here?" Joanna asks around a mouthful of pizza.

Jim raises an eyebrow at her. "You kiss your dad with that mouth?"

"You oughta hear the way _he_ talks if you think I'm bad."

"Believe me, I've heard. The difference is that he's a grown man whose job involves prodding annoying sick people, including me. And you're an eleven year old girl."

"And you're stalling," McCoy pipes up in between picking onions off his slice, apparently unconcerned with his daughter's language.

He's right and Jim knows it. He settles on the simplest explanation. "I asked for leave so I could go visit family."

"We're not your family," Joanna points out.

Jim presses a fist to his chest, trying for a pained expression. "You wound me, Jo. What happened to 'Uncle Jim,' huh?"

She rolls her eyes outrageously, and Jim grins at the miniature female version of the gesture. He's used to seeing it on McCoy. "Okay fine, but we're not blood related."

"Most of my family isn't blood related."

McCoy spears him with a glare that tells him how exactly much of his bullshit is getting past him. "You visit your mom?" he asks pointedly. Jim shrugs, answering the question by shoving another bite of pizza in his mouth. McCoy rolls his eyes, unconsciously mimicking his daughter. "Thought not."

"She's busy," Jim attempts a weak rebuttal.

"She's retired, you idiot."

"Doesn't mean she's not busy."

"With what, the ladies' home gardening club and afternoon tea?"

Jim snorts. "Does my mom seem like the type for afternoon tea?"

"How the hell would I know, Jim? I've never met the woman."

Before Jim can tell him how grateful he should be for that, Joanna jumps in again. "Hey, I thought you were all busy and important with that Admiral stuff."

"Even Admirals get leave, you know."

"To screw around on a deserted farm in the middle of Georgia?"

"What can I say? Some bigwigs like going on blowout vacations or visiting the pleasure planets." And he stops that description there before McCoy eviscerates him with his eyes. "And this bigwig likes visiting his favorite not biologically related niece." And he scruffs at her short brown hair again, his wince not entirely theatrical when she slugs him in the shoulder. "Damn, Jo, be gentle with me. I'm just a Cap- Admiral," he corrects himself, "I'm fragile."

"Man up, you Sally," she retorts cheerfully.

"Quit pissin' off Uncle Jim and eat your dinner," McCoy orders gruffly, but he scruffs at her hair too and Joanna doesn't even pretend to fight him off, giving him a lopsided grin and doing as she's told.

It's a quiet evening, but that doesn't surprise Jim. McCoy does the dishes while Joanna drags Jim toward the den, setting him up with a gaming simulator involving cartoon characters in little speeder shuttles and proceeding to kick his ass five times in a row while McCoy sniggers at them. He gets a rib-crushing hug and a peck on the cheek from her when she's finally told to get ready for bed, and he spends almost a half hour of silence out on the porch while McCoy herds her to her room and asks all the right fatherly questions about making sure her homework is done and her teeth are brushed.

McCoy returns with a bottle of bourbon and a pair of mismatched tumblers, and Jim recognizes the signs of an interrogation when he sees them; Bones only breaks out the bourbon when he's determined to cut through Jim's bullshit. He takes the tumbler without argument, closing his eyes and resting his head against the chair without sampling his drink yet.

"Haven't known you yet to run away from something, _Admiral_ ," McCoy begins, purposefully needling him.

"Who says I'm running now?"

"You're supposed to be at Starfleet training up to be their golden boy again. Instead you're dicking around at my house and crashing on my sofa."

"Look, if you don't have room-"

"Jim."

He doesn't know why he tries to dodge bullets around McCoy. Probably just the sport of the thing, even though he almost always loses. It's a challenge, and he loves a challenge. "I'm not _running_ ," is the defense he finally settles on. "I was granted leave."

"Admirals don't get granted leave. Not during the promotional process. You told me that when I asked you to come see us."

"Yeah, I did."

"So what, you're such a big goddamn hero that Starfleet lets you off the hook whenever you start whining?" McCoy takes a heavy swig from his glass, refills it. "Cashing in on your fame?"

Jim snorts humorlessly. "So in the year and a half that I haven't seen you, suddenly you've decided I'm just another Starfleet blowhard with more rank than brains?"

"Maybe you are," McCoy grumbles, but there's less vitriol in his voice now, and his eyes speak of some measure of guilt for having attacked out of turn.

It's an unspoken language Jim knows well, and he shrugs it off. "Maybe I am," he agrees.

Silence, a few quiet sips, the creak of the old porch chairs. "You gonna talk about it?" McCoy finally asks.

"Yeah," Jim says, setting his glass on the arm of his chair and rubbing his face, gathering his thoughts. "And it's Captain, by the way."

McCoy raises an eyebrow, and it reminds Jim rather sharply of someone else. "They haven't promoted you yet?"

"I haven't even started yet," he admits quietly, taking a long swallow of his drink so he can explain himself.

*******

_Eighteen months ago:_

He hasn't even managed to make it to his quarters yet, his communicator having gone ballistic during his shuttle ride back to the Academy. He's in Pike's office, wondering what could have prompted the man to send him an emergency wave like that. "You wanted to see me, Admiral?"

"Hi Jim!" comes an overly perky voice from the desk. Gaila's sitting on top if it with that big, brain-melting grin on her face, and it doesn't matter how long she's been taking her hormone suppressants, he still can't believe anyone can resist that smile.

"Uh, hi Gaila," he returns, giving Pike the sternest glare he can get away with given he's trying to look disapproving of a superior officer. "Sir? Why is there an Orion sitting on your desk?"

"Let me introduce you to my administrative assistant," Pike returns with a mysterious little smile, and Jim wonders if Number One knows about this.

"That's a mighty big word for secretary," Gaila chirps, uncrossing and recrossing her legs just because it forces her skirt to hike up another inch. "Besides, you don't let me do any of the fun secretarial stuff." She pouts at Jim. "Says he's married so he won't have sex with me. As if that stops most humans."

Which means yes, Number One _does_ know about this. Jim grins. "All right then. So you just waved me here to meet your secretary? Because believe me, we've met before."

"He means we slept together," Gaila informs Pike in a stage whisper.

"I know what he means, Gaila," Pike returns, then addresses Jim. "Sit. Let's talk about this Admiral business."

"With all due respect, sir, it's already past the talking stage." But he pulls up a chair as ordered. "I sent in my acceptance just before I hit spacedock."

"Luckily it was intercepted before the other Admirals could open it."

"Sir, you can't intercept PADD data. Not legally, anyway. And it takes a computer technician with an outrageous amount of skill to-" Gaila is twirling a curl of red hair around her finger looking smug. "... Oh," Jim finishes stupidly.

"Mhm," Pike murmurs, looking almost as smug as his assistant. "I didn't request her just because she can charm the pants off of every ranking Starfleet officer who steps foot in my office."

"And the skirts, too," she adds cheerfully.

"Gaila is one of the most highly commended computer techs to ever come out of the Engineering division."

"So I take it you never got in trouble for the Kobayashi Maru incident," Jim says, trying to get his bearings back. This is not exactly the conversation he had envisioned when Pike summoned him here.

"Well, Commander Spock was pretty furious when he figured out where the code came from," she admits, and Jim wills himself not to react to the name. "But he was impressed that I figured out how the code worked before he did and he let me off the hook when I had it fixed within a few hours of discovering it. Actually, the fix went into my dossier and it's apparently a big part of why Pike hired me when I didn't want to get on another starship." Not that Jim can blame her. Her rehabilitation process took months after Starfleet rescue crews discovered her on a fortuitously sealed piece of wreckage near the empty space where Vulcan used to be. She can walk again, but it was a close thing. "So hey, thanks for cheating," she finishes, still grinning at him.

"It wasn't cheating, it was creative thinking," Jim mutters like he always does when this comes up.

Pike steps in before Gaila can tease him further. "I have important business to discuss with the Captain," he reminds her. "Why don't you lock down the office and go get something to eat, sweetheart?"

She hops off of his desk and smooths her skirt back down to borderline regulation length. "Want me to bring back your usual?"

"Bring two in case I haven't finished with Jim here."

"Can do." She leans in and pecks Pike on the cheek, pecks Jim too as she passes him, then flounces out of the office. There's a low mechanical chirp as the door slides shut indicating a command lock has been set in place.

"... Sweetheart?" Jim teases when they're alone again.

Pike shrugs. "Number One won't let me call her that, and Gaila doesn't mind." He keeps going before Jim can jump in and give him any shit over it. "But I didn't call you here to discuss my wife or my assistant. I brought you here to talk about your last PADD wave before you left the Enterprise."

Jim attempts a joke. "What, did I misspell something on my book report?"

"No, but your acceptance form left a lot to be desired," Pike fires back. "Most candidates send back at least a few hundred words about what an honor it is to be chosen for the promotional process and what they intend to do as an Admiral."

"The acceptance was a last minute decision," Jim admits, knowing that it doesn't reflect well on him. "I didn't have time to compose a twenty page essay dedicated to ass-kissing the Admirals on the board."

"Fair enough." Pike is long used to Jim's flippancy. "Then why don't you tell me what you plan on doing with your new rank?"

He doesn't know, he realizes with a start. It was simply something to do after his crew went their separate ways, the next logical step to take when he couldn't be Captain of the Enterprise once the five year mission was complete. He tries to come up with an answer that won't sound weak.

He doesn't manage it before Pike jumps in again. "Admirals wield enormous power in Starfleet. They make the big decisions, they command a lot of respect, and I can see the appeal in being the youngest one on board. But at the heart of the matter they're just diplomats and bureaucrats."

He tries not to wince. Those are two of the things he liked least about being a Captain, having always loved the exploration and discovery angles far better. "They're not always stuck here playing the political game," he points out. "There's a couple stationed on outlying planets."

"One near the Romulan neutral zone, one near the Klingon neutral zone, and two on developing colonies so far out in space that the Federation has to station someone there or else risk being invisible in those quadrants." He fixes Jim with a piercing stare. "Is that what you want, Jim? A tiny office stationed in a fledgling colony?"

The word 'colony' sparks a sudden idea. He tries not to look too eager. "We don't have any Starfleet officials stationed on New Vulcan. I could-"

Pike interrupts him. "New Vulcan has been declared a non-interference planet. Most of the ambassadors and other Vulcan officials have returned there and they're very insistent on keeping everyone out until they give the go-ahead."

Jim blinks. "Why? They've never minded having other races and cultures around before now. You know, 'Infinite diversity in infinite combinations,' and all that."

"That was when there were six billion of them. There are just under nine thousand now, according to the census data they've been able to compile. They're trying to rebuild their culture with as little influence from outsiders as possible. No one but material suppliers and cargo ships are allowed there and none of their staff is allowed past the supply dock. So there's no way in hell they'd allow a full blown Admiral to be stationed there, not even if that Admiral is you."

Jim sags back in his chair, feeling defeated. "It was something to do," he finally says, and Pike is the only Admiral he'd ever admit this to. "My whole crew decided to spread themselves out after the mission, and I felt like getting back on the Enterprise with a different crew just wouldn't be the same. I love that ship but a lot of my reasoning is because I love my crew. Besides, the Enterprise is due for a refit soon so it's not like we could take her out in the next year or two anyhow."

"And in a year or two, when she's ready to go out again? When your crew could be back from their separate assignments? What then? You'd be stuck in a Starfleet office with a rank badge so high that you'd never be able to set foot on any starship again, much less the Enterprise. She'll be obsolete in a few years, surely you know that. She's approaching ten years of service"

"Oh please, she's barely finished six. And with the refit she'll be able to keep her paces with almost any other ship in the fleet," he feels compelled to defend her.

"The Excelsior? The Farragut-A? The Dauntless?" Pike challenges.

"Too showy, too big, and too slow," Jim dismisses him.

"I understand Hikaru Sulu has his eye on the Excelsior."

He winces at that. "No accounting for taste," he mumbles.

Pike sighs and leans forward on his desk. "Look Jim, I understand fighting change. I understand grasping for a promotion because there's nothing better left to do." And for the first time during their meeting, Jim realizes that Pike isn't in a desk chair back there, but his wheelchair. Gaila was lucky enough to walk again. Pike wasn't. "But you're too damn young to be restricting yourself to a desk and an endless array of politicians and diplomats. You don't really want to be an Admiral. You just want something to do."

He tries to straighten up his posture, because he's slumped to the point that he looks like a sullen teenager getting a lecture from his dad. "What else is there to do? I don't want another ship - I want the Enterprise. She can't go anywhere until the refit is finished. She can't start the refit for another three months while she goes through inspections. And I can't stay here sitting on my thumbs until she's ready."

Pike grabs a PADD from one of his desk drawers and hands it over. "Gaila compiled a list of Academy positions currently open to Starfleet officers. Most of them require a rank of Commander or higher, so they should still be a challenge for you. And all of them will add commendations to your record so you'll have enough clout to pull for the Enterprise when she's available again. She may not have the exact same crew when she's ready to go again, but I'm willing to bet that a significant percentage of them will return when they hear you'll be her Captain again."

Jim blinks, a little blown away by all the work Pike and Gaila have put into this. "I ... thank you, sir," he manages, and it isn't nearly enough.

Pike waves him off. "No need. Just trying to keep you out of trouble until we can ship you off to the black again. You do a lot less damage out there than you do here."

"Not by much," Jim mutters, but he leaves Pike's office with a sense of relief and anticipation.

*******

"Can't believe you turned down Admiral and never waved to tell me," McCoy grumps, but it's halfhearted at best. The tumblers are forgotten between them, Jim's still partially full.

"I didn't wave anybody." This is a lie, but he figures it doesn't count if the recipient never responded. "Thought I'd keep it a secret until I contacted everyone to see if they wanted back on the Enterprise."

"How long?" He sounds almost wistful, and Jim breaks into a smile. Maybe he'll get his CMO back after all.

"She should be ready to go in another ten or twelve weeks. We had a minor setback with the food synthesizers a few months ago - they're getting replaced with replicators and they're supposed to suck a lot less - but it's going smoothly again. Scotty said he had it under control so I requested leave to come see you."

McCoy looks up at the stars and Jim's smile just gets wider. Yeah, he definitely wants to come back - and that's a hell of a compliment considering how much he hates flying around in the vacuum of space. "Dunno what I'd do with Joanna."

"Turns out there's a couple of loopholes in Starfleet regulations about having kids on starships," he says casually, as if he hasn't spent the past month or so researching this. "Something about having no next of kin outside a Starfleet officer. You're all Jo's got according to the rules, and she can come aboard if you want her to."

He's winning him over, he can tell by the way McCoy suddenly changes the subject as if he can't let himself hope for the best. "Uhura?"

"Is getting replaced by a rookie Starfleet diplomat and a staff of Engineers preparing the Romulans for their relocation. Said she'd be thrilled to come back."

"Scotty?"

"Glued to the warp drive along with Keenser."

"Sulu?"

Here his face falls a bit. "He's spent the last year as First Officer on the Revenant, trying to get in some command experience so he can petition for his own ship. But I'm working on him."

McCoy snorts. "How? You know he's been drooling over the Captain's chair pretty much ever since you weaseled your ass into it."

"Yeah, well, he took Chekov with him and Chekov is a sucker for nostalgia. If I can convince Chekov to go on one last mission with us, I bet he'll bring Sulu with him." He scowls, belatedly internalizing the insults. "And I didn't _weasel_ my way to the chair."

"If you can convince Chekov," McCoy reminds him, ignoring the sulking. "What about Spock?"

Jim sighs, reaching to drain the rest of his glass. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? It's Spock. I assumed you two were sending waves back and forth like a pair of third graders."

"Well, you assumed wrong."

"Too busy to wave him?"

Jim snorts, toying with his empty glass. "Hardly. I sent him at least one a week for the first several weeks I was back. When I didn't get a response, I sent one to Sarek." McCoy lets out a low whistle, impressed. "Got a response from him, finally, but only to say that Spock was fine but too busy to attend to personal matters."

"You haven't heard from the hobgoblin in _over a year_?" McCoy shakes his head. "And here I thought we'd convinced him we were friends. So much for that."

Jim's mind drifts to that encounter in the transporter room, that Vulcan heat and those wide, needy eyes boring into him, that empty feeling in his chest he's been carrying ever since. "Yeah," he repeats hoarsely. "So much for that."

*******

He spends another four days at the McCoy family home, sleeping on the sofa in the den at night and soaking up some quality time with his adopted family by day. Joanna kicks his ass at her racing simulator daily, and he retaliates by interrogating her about boys at school she likes, pestering her until she goes pink in the face and slugs him. McCoy spends a lot of time halfheartedly lecturing her about bruising her elders which Joanna cheerfully ignores.

She's Bones' daughter through and through, Jim thinks. Abusive to her superiors and apathetic about the consequences. All she needs is a hypospray in her hand and she'll be his female doppelganger.

It's finally Saturday, and they spend a lazy afternoon in the shade of one of the overburdened peach trees on the property. Jim and McCoy are stretched out with their backs against the trunk, Joanna having scurried up in the branches somewhere. The sickly-sweet smell is overpowering, but it's worth it just to feel the sun on his face, the humidity seeping into his skin.

"Hey Dad?" comes the drawling voice from the leaves overhead.

"Yeah, Jo?"

"Why's there a nun on our back porch?"

Jim and McCoy lock eyes on the distant figure clad in heavy black robes. It should look awkward and out of place, but the posture speaks of confidence and grace.

Jim's heart lodges in his throat as he scrambles to his feet. Spock!

"Well, maybe that pointy eared bastard isn't quite so busy anymore," McCoy mutters.

"Huh?"

"It's one of our coworkers," McCoy explains to the branches. "Get back down and you can meet him."

Jim doesn't bother to stick around for the nagging that ensues about tree climbing safety and the relative integrity of Joanna's skull. He takes off toward the house, the severe expression on the figure's face slowly coming into somewhat blurry focus as he runs toward him. "Spock!" he yells when he gets closer to the house. "'Bout damn time you showed your face around here. We were-"

He shuts himself up when he takes in the severe expression on the craggy face in front of him. The Vulcan slowly removes the hood of his robe, revealing that ridiculous haircut going gray at the temples and a stoic mask set firmly in place. "Captain Kirk," he greets him evenly, giving a slight bow of his head.

Jim fights off the disappointment, tries hard not to visibly deflate and offend the man. "Ambassador Sarek."

"I apologize for trespassing upon your time with your family." He gestures toward the two figures making their way toward the house.

"Oh. No, it's- it's no problem." He mentally kicks himself for turning into an inarticulate idiot, shaking his head and getting his act together. "This is Leonard McCoy. You've met him before; he was the Chief Medical Officer aboard the Enterprise." He scruffs up Joanna's hair gently, grateful she's too distracted to slug him in front of a stranger. "And this is his daughter, Joanna. Jo, this is Ambassador Sarek."

Joanna blinks up at the impossibly tall man, then looks up at her father. "Why would you call an Ambassador a pointy eared b-"

McCoy claps a hand over her mouth and turns an interesting shade of purple, shoving her bodily into the house. "Nice to see you again, Ambassador," he mutters, snarling at her as he follows her inside.

Sarek speaks before Jim gets the opportunity to apologize for Joanna's behavior. "I am here at the request of Ambassador Selek."

And while it's nearly impossible to read a Vulcan, Jim could swear there's something in the dark narrowed eyes, some hint at a deeper understanding than Sarek lets on. "I haven't heard from him in a long time. What does he need?"

"He requests your presence on New Vulcan."

It's not at all what he expected, especially given Starfleet's hands-off approach to the colony while they get themselves settled again. "I... Ambassador, I would be honored," he stumbles through an explanation, trying to sound both grateful for the invitation and respectful of their privacy. "So long as it doesn't disrupt your progress."

"I do not anticipate that it will. We are not requesting aid as such. It is..." He seems to be struggling for words, and that sets off a red alert in the corner of Jim's mind. "It is a personal request, one that should be considered with haste."

"I accept," he says instantly. "When do I need to be there?"

"I must insist that we leave at the earliest convenience," Sarek surprises him again with the vehemence in his voice - or maybe Jim's just been translating Vulcan mannerisms so long that it seems blatantly apparent to him. "I have arranged for a transport shuttle to take us back to Starfleet where a private spacecraft is ready to depart for New Vulcan upon our arrival."

Jim blinks. He can't imagine what would be so urgent as to demand such a rush, and the only hypotheses he can generate are anything but pleasant. "I just need two minutes to grab a few things. Is that all right?"

Sarek inclines his head. "I will wait," he says simply.

Getting such a clipped answer from the Ambassador sets off another alarm in his head, and he rushes into the house with little grace. McCoy and Joanna are in the den, a small black bag already packed and waiting at Joanna's feet. "How'd you know?"

"Uh, have you looked out the front window?" Joanna gestures vaguely, and Jim realizes that he's misinterpreted Sarek's meaning. When the Ambassador said he had a transport shuttle, Jim had never imagined the man meant it was in Bones' front yard.

"Shit," he mutters, his gut reeling the way it always does when the earth is about to drop out from under him.

"Is it Spock?" McCoy asks, and under different circumstances Jim would be teasing him about the concern he's showing.

"Not our Spock. The older one." This is how he's always differentiated the two: not the older and the younger, but the older and the one that belongs to them - to him. "I don't know when I'll be back, but I'll wave you when I can to tell you what's going on."

"Go," McCoy urges him, and Jim spares just enough time to receive bruising hugs from the two of them before he's out the door again.

*******

The transport shuttle takes only an hour to get from Georgia back to California. Rather than going through the usual transportation channels to find a starship that happens to have a flightpath in the direction they need, they're taken to the spacedock and loaded into a private spacecraft, similar in some ways to the strange, swooping ship the older Spock brought back from his own timeline. Jim takes it all in, mind reeling; either Sarek is a much more valuable Ambassador than he had realized, or there is some kind of major emergency happening on New Vulcan. Neither scenario sits particularly well with him.

"I sense your anxiety," Sarek murmurs when they are settled in a private, soundproofed area of the strange Vulcan ship. "I apologize for giving you so little explanation, but the situation demanded our hasty return to New Vulcan. If you wish to ask questions, I can provide you with answers at this time."

There are several questions he wants to ask, but keeping the elder Spock's true identity private cancels out a lot of them. He settles on what he believes to be the safest question. "Is there a reason Ambassador Selek requested me specifically?"

"There is."

He waits for a beat in time before he remembers this is Sarek he is talking to. Spock used to give him clipped little answers like that, but usually he was being a smart-ass trying to goad Jim into being more specific in his line of questioning. Sarek is simply being a Vulcan, giving him the most logical answers he can. "Could you provide me with his reason?"

"I am able to do so but would prefer not to. It is a personal matter that I am sure the Ambassador would rather explain to you himself."

The answer puts an enormous obstacle between Jim and any other questions he wants to ask about the older Spock. He debates for a moment, wonders if maybe he should spend the rest of the transport in respectful silence, but in the end he can't stop himself. "How's Spock?"

A moment's hesitation, Sarek's gaze lingering for just a moment on the soundproofed door as if to ensure their privacy. "To which Spock do you refer?"

Jim's eyes go wide. "You _knew_?"

"I had sensed some manner of connection between my son and the Ambassador but was unaware of the specifics until four days ago."

It's like a weight has been lifted from Jim's shoulders. He now has the freedom to ask what he needs to without worrying about protecting the older Spock's identity. "How's m-" He stops himself before he can say 'my Spock.' "How's your son?"

Sarek understands his meaning, acknowledges it with a slight nod. "He has chosen to follow an ancient Vulcan custom and has spent the last six months in an attempt to complete the ritual. He has not yet succeeded."

There are approximately a thousand more questions Jim wants to ask now, but he knows all about Vulcan ritual and privacy and secrecy, so he tries hard to behave. "Is that why he hasn't gotten in touch with any of us?"

"At present he is unable to contact his colleagues," Sarek hedges.

Which means it's only recently that Spock hasn't been able to wave anybody. Which means he could have done it before now but chose not to. An unpleasant weight in Jim's gut makes itself known and he tries not to look as pathetic as he feels. "What about the Ambassador?" he asks, thinking the answer couldn't make him feel any worse than his inquiries about the younger Spock.

It turns out he is very, very wrong.

His brain checks out somewhere during the long-winded explanation of taxing mind melds and damaged telepathic abilities, degrading mental faculties and failing organ systems. Spock - not his Spock, but Spock nonetheless - is dying.

*******

It is unbearable to wait for the line of Vulcan healers and other visitors to file out of the small room. A series of hooded figures march past him in an eerily funereal procession. The image curls around Jim's heart and squeezes painfully, and he resists the urge to fidget. He is the only human present on New Vulcan, the first human allowed there since they declared their non-interference status with the Federation, and to fidget seems disrespectful of that high honor. Still, it's difficult to keep himself from bolting into the room the moment Sarek gestures him inside.

The figure tucked into the bed is older, more emaciated than he remembers, but the face is cherished and familiar, lighting up when he realizes who his new visitor is. "Jim," the elder Spock whispers, and the hoarseness in his voice cuts into him.

He wastes no time seating himself at the edge of the bed, their hands moving toward one another without Jim having consciously decided to touch the other man. The frail fingers cradled in his own squeeze with a kind of strength he would not have imagined Spock was capable of given his physical condition. "James," Spock says, and there's a lot more reverence in his given name than the nickname he's more familiar with.

"Spock," he returns quietly. "How are you feeling?" He wants to kick himself the moment the question leaves his mouth, but he's at a loss. He has no idea what he's supposed to say to a dying Vulcan.

"I am not in distress." The relief Jim feels is palpable, and Spock smiles - actually smiles at him. It looks good on him, looks liberating and relaxed. "The healers have assured me their medications are sufficient to keep the pain at bay without further damage to my mental faculties."

"I'm glad to hear it." He deserves that much at least. He's in a completely different timeline, cut off from those he once loved, alone in a vast universe in which he does not truly belong.

"I am not alone," Spock murmurs, and Jim starts for a moment before remembering their interlaced fingers. Spock is a touch-telepath who has entered Jim's mind before. Reading him must come as easily as breathing.

He winces mentally at that particular metaphor.

"No, you're not," Jim returns, scooting closer until he can feel the heat radiating from the older man.

Spock closes his eyes, face still set in that relaxed expression, and there's a long comfortable silence between them before he speaks again. "Did Sarek inform you why I requested your presence?"

"He told me what was happening." He has to be vague about this, doesn't want to say it out loud. "He didn't tell me your reasoning, though. Said it was private and I should hear it from you."

The smile slowly leaves Spock's face, and he seems to age another decade as he explains. "As I am sure you have already guessed, my own Jim has long since predeceased me."

He can't help the sudden rush of affection at Spock's use of the possessive in regards to the other James Kirk. It warms him to know that the two of them use similar systems to differentiate between two alike individuals. "Vulcans have a longer lifespan than humans, don't they?"

"They do. What must also be taken into account is the mortality rate of Starfleet officers, particularly those in command positions."

He's never asked what became of his counterpart: how he met his end, what adventures he had, none of it. Spock - his Spock, that is - has told him countless times that they are on a new and unique timeline, and that while certain characteristics of those timelines remain the same, many others do not. Jim prefers to write his own story rather than referring back to someone else's instruction manual all the time. Now, however, he finds himself wanting to know. "What happened?"

The fingers curled between his own twitch momentarily, and Jim understands the gesture. He lifts the ancient hand to his temple, pressing his fingers there, silently offering permission. Spock's expression goes soft and intimate, and Jim has a moment of almost crushing desire to see that same expression on his own Spock's face.

The desire is suddenly lost in a fine gray mist. The images aren't as sharp as the ones shared on Delta Vega, their importance blurred around the edges, a result of the medications working through Spock's system.

_It's just a ceremonial run, Spock. Bare bones crew, Starfleet's new blood trying to prove themselves. Come with me._

_I have matters to attend to here._

_Well sure, so do I, but it's the Enterprise. New crew, new adventures. She needs her old family there to give her our blessing. She's not going anywhere interesting. Just a jog around the block and she'll be back._

_I must conclude from your sudden insistence that Doctor McCoy refused your invitation._

_Boring old bastard says if he gets back on the ship, Starfleet will just re-enlist him again. Says he's content with his mint juleps and old rocking chair._

_I see._

_Come on, Spock. We'll be back in a week. You can cancel your meetings and debates for that long, can't you?_

_Hesitation, consideration, and gentle refusal. Well wishes and admonitions to stay safe. Remembrance of all the disasters that inevitably follow in Jim's wake. Hope that it will be different this time._

_Departure. Nagging hint that all is not well. Distracted during his office hours. Distracted during his diplomatic duties. Distracted that night as he tries to sleep._

_Awakened from troubled dreams by the searing pain in his mind and the emptiness in his heart. T'hy'la, gone. The mind link between them a severed and gaping wound. His heart a black mass of knots. Sobbing as he has never done before in his life, until he can't see, can't breathe, can't think. No body to mourn over. No katra to protect. Nothing._

Nothing.

_Decades of nothing, of throwing himself into his work, of becoming the most highly respected Ambassador Vulcan has ever produced. Decades of a mind reeling for its other half, of a void deep within him, of an inescapable loneliness that eases little over time._

_Relief as the end of all things creeps inevitably nearer. Anticipation for what is to come. Hope. Familiarity._

_A love that haunts him, calls to him. Waits for him._

They break apart slowly, the warm, wrinkled hand cradling Jim's cheek and wiping away moisture he had not been aware of up to that point. It's difficult to form words, to think, to try to wade through the immense gulf of sadness and grief that this aging Vulcan has carried with him for so many years - for almost half of his life. He's gulping in breath in between little hiccups and catches of his throat, scrubbing at his eyes so he can see again. "T'hy'la?" he manages to ask in an almost embarrassingly broken voice.

That soft, intimate expression captures Spock's face again, and Jim has to squash the sudden urge to kiss him. This is not his Spock and he doesn't have the right. "Brother, lover, soulmate," he explains quietly, and he sounds more distant now.

Jim clutches his fingers, trying to keep him anchored for awhile longer. "That's what he was to you?"

"I cannot fully explain what he was to me. T'hy'la is the simplest and most expedient way of attempting to do so."

He tries to remember the other foreign phrase lilting through the lingering mists in his mind. "Katra?"

"Perhaps the most important reason that I requested your presence." The distance in Spock's eyes fades temporarily, that razor sharp Vulcan focus slicing through him. "Vulcan belief suggests that each of us carries an essence of our being, something that can separate from the physical body and exist independently from it when the body has exhausted its resources."

That triggers a sudden memory of a conversation he had with his own Spock. "The katric ark. Spock said his parents were there when..." He cannot bear to bring this up now, not when he's still reeling from the mind link.

"Upon occasion, a dying Vulcan is asked if his katra may be stored for future generations," he continues as if Jim had not even spoken. "It is kept in a sacred place with a collection of other katras, including one believed to have been Surak's."

"And they've asked if yours could join them?"

"They have." Here he ceases with the academics and squeezes Jim's hand in his own. "I would ask a final favor of you, old friend."

Spock's voice catches on the endearment, as if he meant to say something else, and the phrase _t'hy'la_ lilts silently between them. It isn't him, isn't his endearment to claim. It belongs to another man, another life, another James Kirk. "Whatever it is you want, Spock, I'll make sure you get it. It's the least I can do for someone who's saved my life on countless occasions."

"Stay," Spock whispers, so quietly that it's nearly inaudible. "It will not be long. I want... I must ensure that my katra is freed."

Jim can't contain his surprise. "You refused the offer?"

"I have. I do not wish to be contained here." The gnarled hand slowly ceases its grip, the muscles relaxing until Jim is cradling it rather than holding it, thumbs massaging mindless soothing circles into the heated skin. "I have lived without the presence of another's katra linked to mine for far too long. I would ask that you ensure my freedom at the end of my physical existence."

It takes him a moment to understand, and his eyes sting and threaten to spill over again. "You want to find him again."

"I _will_ find him again," Spock corrects him.

It is such a simple request, such a heartfelt desire. Jim can't help the emotions bubbling up inside him, pressing the frail fingers against his chest and stroking through Spock's hair with his free hand. "I'll stay," he murmurs.

Spock lets out a shuddering breath as if a massive weight has been lifted from him. "I thank thee," he murmurs, syntax slipping into that strange formal tone he's only heard from his own Spock on rare occasion.

Jim isn't sure how long he stays there. He knows he spends a few hours watching him sleep, slipping in and out of full consciousness. He spends his time stroking through the soft silvery hair, committing the aged features to memory. He wonders if he will ever know the joy of being with his own Spock like this. He wonders if the timelines will allow for another bond with that kind of strength and steadfast devotion.

He wonders whether his Spock is even aware that his older counterpart is dying.

Dark eyes lock onto his own in the middle of his reverie, their intensity startling him out of his thoughts. "What do you need?" he asks softly.

"Find Spock." It's slurred and distant, but still understandable.

"I'll do my best," he tries to be reassuring without telling an outright lie. "He's been avoiding me ever since he left Starfleet."

"Find him. Bring him back. He is lost."

"Lost?" Surely someone would have told him if Spock were missing. "Where did he go?"

"Where humanity cannot reach him. Do not allow him to make my mistake."

"I don't-"

He's cut off by another surge of Vulcan strength trying to crush his fingers. "Do not allow him."

Without really understanding what he's agreeing to, he whispers, "I won't. I promise. I'll find him."

The gnarled hand loses any semblance of strength then, going limp against Jim's chest. The dark eyes shift focus from Jim to an empty corner of the room, anxious expression melting to another of peaceful, unrestrained delight. "James," he whispers, and it is both a welcome and a benediction. "I have waited so long, t'hy'la."

An incredibly selfish part of Jim isn't ready, doesn't want to let him go. There's so much he never asked this man, so much he doesn't know about him. He wants to drink in the memories of his life, bask in the warmth of Spock's coexistence with his own counterpart, revel in the kind of bond he's sure he'll never have with his Spock. He wants that connection, that joy, knows that it isn't his to claim.

So he keeps stroking the silvery hair, laces his fingers with lax gnarled ones that have lost their usual heat. "Go," he urges softly. "Go find him."

"James," Spock says again, his breathing labored, sparse, heavy. Jim listens to the ragged intakes, thrown by the way they no longer occur in any predictable rhythm. Each concerted effort to inhale squeezes around his heart, makes him both terrified and hopeful that this is the end.

Another inhale, and he ceases stroking his hair in favor of cradling the craggy, aged face, whispering something mindless and soothing at him. Another inhale, and he wonders if it is the last. Another inhale, and he wonders anew.

And then he realizes, after a protracted pause, that the room has fallen silent. There's no exhale, no low vibration of a pulse under the skin. There's no movement, no sound. There's no sense of finality to it, nothing as precise as closure, simply a quiet realization that here, in this room, he has witnessed the end of an extraordinary existence.

"Find him," he whispers again, closing the unfocused eyes. "Find him."


	4. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: "Spock, like most young Vulcans, believes that Pon Farr can result in extreme violence. Only to discover that, although the mating drive is strong, violence has nothing to do with it. Rather, all emotions, including love and tenderness, are so heightened that they become, in the view of pure Vulcans, 'violent'."

Sarek is busier than Jim would have imagined. He knew on a very basic level that there was a lot to be done for the colony - buildings to erect, Vulcans to summon to their new home, political procedures to put into place so that they can rebuild their lives in peace. The population has been decimated but the workload required to keep them functioning has likely tripled. Jim has no idea how many politicians, teachers, healers, engineers, or philanthropists were lost in the singularity. He does know that there seems to be a dark haze lingering in the face of every Vulcan here, and that unified cultural sense of loss casts a shadow even when the desert sun is at its peak.

He is the only human currently allowed on New Vulcan's surface, all other humans being restricted to the supply dock and quickly escorted off of it. He isn't here to help with the rebuilding process, isn't even here as a representative of Starfleet, but neither of those solid facts does anything to stop the sidelong glances and distrustful eyes pointed in his direction everywhere he goes. Even Sarek's assistant, a man who looks to be Jim's age but is actually twenty years his senior, has a faint flickering of distaste over his features before he schools them back to stoic perfection. "The Ambassador is waiting for you," he informs Jim in that clipped, even tone that seems omnipresent here.

He longs to hear warmth infusing all that formal speech. He wonders if he'll ever hear it again.

He enters Sarek's office, taking a seat in front of his desk. "Ambassador."

Sarek nods in greeting. "Captain."

This is the part of his job that he's not as good at: the diplomacy part. He can't believe he ever even considered joining the Admirals if this is the kind of dance they do all day. "I came to ask about transportation back to Earth. It's clear that humans aren't welcome on New Vulcan at this time, and I don't want to be a thorn in anyone's side."

Apparently Sarek is familiar with the idiom, because he doesn't question it the way Spock usually does (though Jim is convinced an awful lot of that is Spock feigning ignorance and fucking with them for his own amusement). "You are not impeding the progress being made here. However, I have arranged for the colony's private spacecraft to take you back to Earth in two days' time."

Jim raises an eyebrow at him, a gesture he's unconsciously picked up after five years of familiarity with it. "Forgive me, but I'm surprised you're allowing me such an extended stay. I've seen Ambassador Sel- Spock," he corrects himself, having been used to using his alternate name when discussing him with other Vulcans over the past few days since his death. "I was allowed to attend the funeral - thank you for that, by the way - but that was days ago. What more would you have me do?"

Sarek spears him with a look reminiscent of McCoy when he's trying to call him on his bullshit. "You have no further business on New Vulcan?"

Jim wills himself not to squirm. "Sir, I've sent several waves to the system you indicated was in Spock's quarters. I haven't heard anything from him and I've been trying ever since Spock - the older one, that is - passed away. I'm not sure what else I can do past trying to physically track him down, and he's good at making himself scarce when he doesn't want to be disturbed."

One of Sarek's eyebrows slowly creeps skyward as Jim explains himself, turning his attention to a small console built into his desk. He spends a few minutes inputting commands, speaking to a holographic monitor in Vulcan before it finally spouts something back at him.

"It appears my son has sequestered himself in the sanctuary in the Haadok Mountains." At Jim's curious look, he explains, "Vulcans require seclusion for intense meditation, especially the level required for the kolinahr ritual."

He latches onto the new term with interest. "Kolinahr?"

"Yes. It is a path many Vulcans have chosen to follow in order to control their grief or anger over our current situation."

"So it's a way to deal with what happened on Vulcan?" It doesn't quite make sense; he knows Vulcans to be renowned for their ability to exert control over their emotions. Why they would need a ritual to do something they already practice on an everyday basis is a mystery.

It's a mystery Sarek doesn't seem keen to explain, checking his monitor again and inputting more information. "He arrived at the sanctuary four point six hours ago. He should still be able to break his meditation to speak with you, even if only temporarily." And if there's some measure of hope or anxiety in Sarek's voice, it isn't echoed in his expression. But Jim can't believe that he simply imagined it was there.

"Look, Ambassador... I appreciate what you're doing. And I do want to speak with him." _More than you could possibly imagine._ "But I don't want to interrupt him if he's in the middle of something important."

Sarek gives him a look that seems to bore right through him, and he once again resists the urge to squirm when Sarek speaks. "I am grateful for the respect you have for our traditions and the choices he has made." Here he stops and seems to take a moment ensuring he's chosen the right words. "Nevertheless, I would feel more at ease with his decision if he were given one last opportunity to explore his human side."

Jim has been so used to his humanity being a disadvantage, or at the very least a distraction, that he can't help looking a bit gobsmacked. "He's tried all his life to embrace the Vulcan way," he says, feeling some strange need to defend him even though no attack has been made on his character. Then again, any expression of humanity or overt emotionalism equates to an attack on Spock's character on this planet.

Not from his father, apparently. "He has, and I am proud of his efforts. However, I have reason to believe that the path he has chosen may not be the correct one for him. I would have you ensure that he is... at peace, perhaps, with his choice."

He doesn't understand exactly what Sarek's getting at, but he can sense the anxiety in his tone of voice, even though his inflection has changed very little. It's enough for him that Sarek wants him to go check on his son. "All right. If it's okay with you, I'd be more than happy to see him."

"I thank thee," Sarek says in that grand, formal syntax. It echoes in Jim's heart with a different inflection, with an image of silver hair and a peaceful craggy face, and something deep within him aches for the loss.

*******

Jim arrives at the Haadok Sanctuary some thirty minutes later, marveling at the level of technology the Vulcans have already managed to put into place at such an early stage in their reconstruction. Sarek informs him that the sanctuary is a vital structure, just as vital as their medical facility or their supply dock, so it only makes sense that it's one of the first places to benefit from a technological standpoint. Still, it's jarring to see the equivalent of a Vulcan secretary typing away at a console while the rest of the planet is mostly either deserted or in shambles.

He's guided to a series of caverns that appear to occur naturally in the rock, although each of them has had a sliding door installed to ensure the privacy of the occupant. They seem to be soundproofed as well, which makes little sense if it's a meditative sanctuary, but Jim has learned not to question Vulcan ritual too closely. He gets enough glares as it is just by virtue of being here.

The woman presiding over the sanctuary hesitates at the door, her gaze darting to a series of shelves bolted into the wall next to each cavern opening. Each shelf has a series of ornate, engraved wooden boxes stacked on them, and the only text Jim can translate says something to the effect of, 'Ceremonial rations.' He wonders if meditating Vulcans forget to eat. He knows he's shoved Spock toward the Mess Hall on a number of occasions when he gets too busy to remember his meals.

She seems to come to a decision, giving Jim a respectful bow and murmuring, "Nam-tor u'sha'yut."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. Your language is difficult for me."

For the first time since he's been here, he senses something approaching friendliness in a severe, stoic face. "My apologies; I had assumed you were fluent." It's not an insult the way it has been coming from other Vulcans, and he feels a little more at ease. "I simply meant to inform you that the path he has chosen is a tradition. It is our way. A human may find it difficult to understand."

Jim can't help the smirk that takes over his face. "It wouldn't be the first thing about him that's been difficult to understand."

She endears herself to him again by taking no offense at the statement, merely bowing again and entering a code into a keypad that allows the door to open. He returns the gesture, stepping inside and hearing the familiar hiss of a pneumatic door sliding shut behind him.

Even having prepared himself for this moment, even after almost two years of nothing but his memories of their years of service together and a solitary encounter in the transporter room, he still doesn't expect the immense wave of feeling washing over him when he spies the straight-backed figure seated on the floor. Spock has his face turned toward the sunlight filtering in from the window, his back to the door, apparently oblivious to the fact that there's an intruder in the room. Jim spends a few minutes collecting himself, taking in the glossy black hair and the stiff set of his shoulders.

It is both reminiscent of - and yet nothing like - the man who passed away several days ago.

"Spock?" There's no response, and Jim decides he must be in fairly heavy meditation for him not to react. He circles around him, settles himself on the floor in front of him, his head and upper body blocking the sunlight from the serene face. He's never seen Spock quite that peaceful. It looks good on him. "Spock?" he tries again.

Nothing. Which is unusual, but not unheard of. He had to shake Spock out of a trance or two during their time on the Enterprise, and he's not adverse to doing it again. He tries a third time, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder affectionately, but firmly. "Hey, Spock."

Dark eyes open and take him in. There's a flash of ferocious intensity there, a feral wildness that takes Jim's breath away and makes his heart pound.

And then it's gone as quickly as it came, a mask slamming into place. In place of the sudden tempest is an utter implacability of Spock's features, a blankness in the eyes and a reservation to his expression that makes him appear as if he's been carved in stone.

It is deeply unsettling in a way Jim can't explain. "Spock?"

"Captain." No inflection in the voice, no familiarity whatsoever. The only thing moving on that stony face is the mouth, and it is bereft of the small hints of emotion that Jim became so good at reading.

"Jim," he corrects him automatically, like he hasn't had to do in years. "You okay, Spock?"

The eyebrow doesn't so much as twitch, and it is this more than anything causing the twisting of his guts. "I am in adequate health and of sound mind."

 _Sound mind, my ass._ He's reminded of all the times McCoy jokingly called him a robot. There's nothing funny about it now. "What'd they do to you?"

"I do not understand your meaning."

The hell of it is, he _does_. Jim spent five years on the Enterprise learning to translate Spockese through his body language. Those wide human eyes of his give him away. He may be hiding his emotions, but he can't hide his intelligence. "You know exactly what I mean."

"There has been no damage inflicted upon my person by another individual, therefore-"

"I didn't come here to play the semantics game, Spock. I came to figure out what the hell you've been up to for the past two years that prevented you from getting in touch with us."

There's the slightest, almost invisible tilt to Spock's head at that, and if the gesture were a little more showy Jim would be sure he was irritating him. As it is, the movement comes off as calculated, controlled, revealing nothing. "I have been helping with the reconstruction of various computer systems on New Vulcan, including the one regulating the privacy locks on the doors at the Sanctuary."

No inflection to the voice again. Jim can't tell if Spock is annoyed by the intrusion or grateful for the company, and it's infuriating that he can't tell the difference anymore. He tries a different tactic. "We've missed you, Spock. Even Bones asked me why we hadn't heard from you. You know you've sucked at communicating when even Bones starts complaining about it."

There's a brief flicker of something in his eyes before it vanishes again, so quickly that Jim could have wished it there rather than truly seen it. "I was unaware that my lack of communication would affect you."

He's not being self effacing about it, nor is he being a smart ass. Jim is completely thrown by this strange facsimile of his friend, and he lapses into a frustrated, calculating silence. Spock does nothing but stare at him coolly until he speaks again. "What's kolinahr?" he asks, hoping the complete change of topic will elicit some kind of response.

He gets the barest twitch of an eyebrow. Considering the lack of response he's gotten so far, it's almost the equivalent of a full-on glare. "Where did you hear that term?"

It's ridiculous how relieved he is to be on the receiving end of Spock's temper, even if it's only being expressed through the minuscule movements of one eyebrow. It's more than he's gotten throughout the entire conversation, and he'll take what he can get. "Your father told me. He said it was some kind of ritual you were following. He didn't give me details."

Another long pause, and Jim represses the urge to snarl in frustration at how unreadable Spock's face is. He doesn't know if he's annoyed, angry, worried. He doesn't know if he's perhaps crossed some sort of line, doesn't know if he's intruded on all that Vulcan privacy. It's like searching a statue for emotional cues - harder, in fact, because artists can imbue their work with feeling. There's none of that coming from Spock. "Kolinahr," he finally says, "is an ancient Vulcan ritual. It allows the practitioner control over his or her emotions."

"Vulcans practice control over their emotions all the time," Jim points out. "I don't see why you'd need some sort of ritual to do what you already do naturally." More silence, and Jim's patience wears thin. "Look, Spock, your father sent me to check on you. He's made sure to give me a couple of days here before they ship me back to Earth. He wants me to see how you're doing, so why don't you cut the privacy bullshit and just tell me what's going on?"

There's no reaction to that, and Jim never would have imagined longing for another outburst like the one on the bridge during the Narada incident. Being choked within an inch of his life would be less painful than trying to communicate with this strange new Spock. "Kolinahr is the practice of purging one's emotions," he finally says.

Jim can't repress his utter shock. "Purging them? All of them? Why would you do that?"

For a moment it seems like Spock will simply refuse to answer him at all, and Jim is this close to leaving the room when he finally speaks. "Kolinahr means purging all emotions - both the positive and the negative. To do so ensures complete control over them, so they do not control us."

"But you haven't had problems controlling them in the past." At that, Spock's eyebrow continues its slow journey to his hairline, and Jim backtracks. "Past a few minor incidents, that is."

"You consider an attempt to end your life a minor incident?"

"Oh for- We've been over this, Spock. I intentionally provoked you. It wasn't your fault."

"I do not agree." And there's really nothing that can be said to protest the matter, because not only is Spock a stubborn bastard, he's not letting his temper or his guilt play any part in the conversation.

Jim tries another tactic. "Did you ... did the other Spock talk to you at all? Before...?" There's a pang in his heart that won't let him talk about it in detail just yet.

Something happens in Spock's face, but it's more like he's bracing himself rather than showing any kind of emotion. "He did."

"Did he tell you anything about his life?"

Absolute steel in those dark eyes. "His life and his experiences do not mirror my own."

"Not exactly, no. But a lot of them do. He was First Officer of the Enterprise. He was friends with his own Jim Kirk." Jim hesitates, wondering if he should bring up the emotions he experienced during the meld. "He was-"

"He was not a member of a dying race. He did not feel the same responsibilities toward his people that I do. He was not affected by a sudden diminishment in the population-" Here Spock seems to realize that he's said too much, silencing himself with a nearly audible click of his jaw.

Jim's anger and impatience bleed out, just a little bit. "Is that what this is about? Is that why you got so sick during our first year of the mission?"

"It was part of my reason for choosing this path," he agrees. "Attaining kolinahr will guarantee my safety the next time the ... illness affects me."

"Isn't there some other way to deal with the illness? Some way that doesn't mean suppressing everything you've ever felt?"

If there is, Spock doesn't seem keen on enlightening him. He goes silent again, closing his eyes as if trying to lapse back into his meditative state.

Jim isn't about to be ignored that easily. "I spoke to him, too," he murmurs quietly. "I was there when he passed away." At Spock's lack of response, he continues. "He told me you were lost. That I needed to find you."

"My location is easily discernible, as you have obviously discovered."

"That's not what he meant. And I think you know that and you're just trying to dance around the issue." He wants to touch him so badly, tries desperately to keep it reigned in. "He said you were lost in a place where humanity couldn't reach you."

"I have chosen to purge the more human side of me in an effort to control baser Vulcan urges." And before Jim can comment on that or ask what he means, Spock forges on. "I would ask that you respect my decision and allow me to continue the ritual without further distraction."

And Jim can't argue with that. He just can't. He knows this man, loves this man, and he's moved well past the stage where he would ignore Spock's needs simply because they didn't fit within his own human understanding of the world. If this is what he wants, well...

Any hope he had of changing the situation deflates from deep in his lungs. "Whatever you want, Spock," he says quietly. He sits up on his knees in preparation to depart when a sudden thought occurs to him. "The Enterprise refit will be done in a couple of weeks. If you're done with your ritual, I'd be happy to have you back on board as my First Officer."

The dark eyes open again, and there's a look of blatant want there that rips at him. "You would welcome my return? Even after I have attained kolinahr?"

Jim shrugs. "I'll take you any way I can get you. You're the best damn officer in the fleet and you're also one of my best friends. If all I can get is the logical Vulcan side of you, then I'll take it."

Spock seems to realize he's projecting too much emotion, and the eyes go carefully blank after some sort of short internal battle. "I shall consider it."

"Good." And then he just can't help himself anymore, leaning forward and pressing the swiftest of kisses to Spock's lips. He isn't surprised when the expression doesn't change, but the eyes shift back to that hungry look, and that's good enough. "I miss you," he says simply, stopping himself from saying anything more and taking his leave.

*******

Jim spends his last two days on New Vulcan sending waves back and forth with Starfleet. His crew roster gets more crowded by the hour, and it settles a faintly insecure part of him to know that so many of them wish to return. He's got Bones and Joanna on the roster now, too. He can't believe how good it feels to have his secondary family on board, and he's tempted to list Joanna as a Cabin Boy if only to embarrass her and make her go on coffee runs. But then she'd probably wind up slugging him on the bridge, and he can't afford to get beaten up by an eleven year old girl when he's supposed to be in command of the ship.

He spends the majority of his last day on New Vulcan rejecting applications for the First Officer position. He has no idea if Spock will actually come back to the ship - and that's unsettling enough on its own, that he can't read Spock well enough anymore to know if he's actually going to think about it or if he was just humoring Jim - but he's going to keep that position open up until they leave spacedock. If he gets desperate, he'll put Sulu in that slot so he can get more command experience under his belt. As for Science Officer ... well, he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it.

Two days of dealing with the crew roster and positions and he's completely exhausted by the time Sarek escorts him out to the small private spacecraft. He does his best to play the Diplomatic Starfleet Captain game, but he's probably too tired to have said his thanks properly.

The hissing of the door behind him is another ache layering over his heart in a week that's been too full of them. He's lost the one connection he had to another timeline, another Spock, another life where he was the center of the Vulcan's universe. He's failed to convince his own Spock to return to Starfleet with him. He's lost one of the two best friends he'll ever have to some strange Vulcan ritual that will strip Spock of all that closely guarded emotion. He could kick himself for ever allowing Spock to leave the transporter room alone. He should have spent the past two years trailing after him like a shadow, and to hell with Starfleet and his career.

Only ... only it doesn't work like that. He loves his job. He loves flinging himself to the furthest reaches of the galaxy and then taking a step over that line to see what lies beyond. It's what he's made for; it's in his blood. And while there's a piece of his heart being left behind in a cave in the Haadok Mountains, the rest of it is ready to go back out in the black. It's time.

The journey from New Vulcan to Earth takes several hours, so he straps himself into his chair and promptly passes out. He dreams of Bones, of Joanna, of his makeshift adopted family on his first, best home. He dreams of the Enterprise and the people she brought into his life. He dreams of Pike and Gaila shoving him off into space with a smile and a wave. He dreams of fantastic new worlds, new species, new problems that demand new solutions.

He dreams of an empty console on the bridge, the chair in front of it holding nothing but a pile of dead green circuits.

He dreams of a bond he will never share with another, of another half of himself launching into space to meet its equal. He dreams of a joyous reunion, of an ecstasy and a peace he cannot even begin to comprehend. He dreams of completion, of unity, of love.

And then, most disturbingly, he dreams of a wild feral hunger that seizes his mind and obliterates it, of an urge so deep and so profound that it drives him to bloodlust, to war, to destruction.

He wakes when the ship makes a sudden lurching motion under his feet. Disoriented and dazed, he shakes his head and waits for the craft to stabilize before he unstraps himself and makes his way to the cockpit. "Everything a'right?" he slurs, exhaustion still coloring his voice despite the short rest.

"All technical readouts and major functions of the ship are nominal," comes the cool, clipped voice of the Vulcan pilot. "We are en route back to New Vulcan."

"Yeah, okay." Two steps away from the cockpit and he replays that sentence in his mind one more time. He stumbles back. "New Vulcan?"

"Affirmative."

 _Shit, don't tell me I slept through my stop._ "Aren't you supposed to drop me off first?"

"Ambassador Sarek has sent us a wave indicating that your presence is required back on New Vulcan." And for as much as Vulcans pride themselves on their emotional control, he can tell from the tone of voice that the pilot is more than a little concerned about this particular turn of events.

Jim rubs at his eyes and tries to sound less like a slurring drunk. "He mention why you needed to bring me back?" He's had enough heartache for the next year or so - he's not exactly keen on heading back to its source.

"He did."

He can't quite stop himself from rolling his eyes. He'd forgotten how infuriatingly literal most Vulcans can be. "And can you tell me his reason?"

"I cannot."

And since it wouldn't do any good to tell the pilot how maddeningly unhelpful he's being, Jim has little choice but to strap himself back into his seat and wonder what kind of disaster has cropped up in the few short hours since he left New Vulcan's atmosphere.

*******

"Ambassador," Jim greets when he stumbles off the ship for the second time this week.

"Captain," Sarek returns. Jim gets ready to make a comment about deja vu, but Sarek begins moving swiftly toward the mountains where the sanctuary is located, and Jim has to jog a little to keep up. "I apologize for interrupting your return voyage, but a lack of time prevented any alternative plan."

"It's not a problem. What can I do to help?"

"My son requests your presence at the Haadok Sanctuary," Sarek explains, and Jim couldn't be any more shocked if Sarek had asked him to declare war on the Romulans on his behalf.

"Sir, I'm not sure what your son told you, but a few days ago he made it pretty clear that I wasn't needed out there."

"A few days ago he was not suffering from the effects of..." Sarek trails off, and he almost looks embarrassed under that stoic expression. "Suffice to say, circumstances have changed."

"That's not all that helpful," Jim points out.

"I am aware of that. However, I am unable to provide you with the details. Should you decide to assist Spock, he will give you all necessary information."

"Is he sick?" he plows on, heedless of Sarek's hedging.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Then why the hell would I refuse to help him out?" Jim's patience is all but gone at this point. He's lost one Spock to sickness and old age and he's losing another to that strange Vulcan ritual. The lack of explanation is fast becoming the last straw.

Sarek doesn't react to the outburst, speaking to the Vulcan woman in charge of the sanctuary for a moment before returning his attention to Jim. "It is a disease that goes back to the time of our ancestors, when we were a race of warriors with no thought to control our baser urges. Has Spock never told you why Vulcans now follow the teachings of Surak?"

Jim bristles at the implication that he knows nothing of his First Officer's origins. "You follow the teachings of Surak in order to control your emotions, to prevent them from taking you over."

"And we control our emotions because they are the cause of our near-extinction several thousand years ago. We were a bloodthirsty race once, Captain, and our desire to kill came too close to ending us. It was only through Surak's teachings that we were able to survive to the present."

"So Spock's gotten sick in a way that messes with his control?" Jim hazards a guess, following Sarek and the Vulcan woman back to Spock's room at the sanctuary. He raises an eyebrow when the woman takes one of those ceremonial ration crates from the shelves and hands it to him without a word.

"His control is not what it should be at this time," Sarek returns with his usual diplomacy. "Captain - Jim," and the familiarity is a bit jarring coming from Spock's father, "you are in no way required to help him at this time. He may be able to come up with an alternative solution. The fact remains, however, that he requested you specifically, and at a time when there is every possibility that this illness could prove fatal to him. I would ask that you take that into consideration."

Jim nods, feeling almost dazed as the woman enters the code that opens the door. He can't help but feel as if he's just gotten the, 'If you hurt him, I will hurt _you_ ' speech. And from Spock's father, of all people. Trying to shake it off, he enters, the door sliding shut behind him.

From all the anxiety Jim picked up from the other Vulcans, he had expected to be mauled the moment he stepped into Spock's room at the sanctuary. Instead, it's more like a replay of his visit here a few days ago; Spock is still sitting straight-backed and facing the window, almost as if he hasn't moved at all for the past three days. He doesn't even acknowledge Jim's presence when he sets down the ration kit and makes his way to Spock's meditative corner, settling himself in front of him again.

"Hey," he says quietly, fully expecting to fight for his life at some point.

And here the differences begin to manifest. There's still that feral wildness in Spock's eyes when he meets Jim's, but there's no immediate effort to hide it - in fact, he makes no effort at all. Instead he lets his face go slack with exhaustion and hunger, reaching out a hand between them with the palm facing up. "Jim," he whispers, his voice hoarse as if it takes a monumental effort to speak at all.

Despite the exhaustion and the meekness, this is the Spock Jim is more familiar with, and he smiles when he sets his hand over the almost too-hot one offered to him. "You asked for me. I'm here. What do you need?"

The blatant relief in Spock's face is staggering after seeing him with an almost robotic demeanor only days earlier. "Did my father explain why I requested your presence?"

"He said it had to do with Vulcans having warrior ancestors. He said you could die if I didn't help you out." He shrugs, taking the opportunity to lace their fingers together while he's still got a more complacent Spock in front of him. He's seen Spock in his violent moods; he's not sure how badly he's going to be broken by the time this is over.

But Spock doesn't seem to be even the slightest bit aggressive. Rather, he emits a shaky sigh and squeezes Jim's fingers. And if that weren't shockingly affectionate enough, he takes Jim's hand and presses it to his own cheek as if basking in his lower body temperature. He does feel even warmer to the touch than usual, like he's overheating in the sun. "We call it pon farr. It is the time of mating among Vulcans, something we do not discuss outside of our betrothed or chosen mates." And he's nuzzling into Jim's hand, looking more like a contented housecat than a creature in heat.

After a moment of watching Spock's almost feline reactions, the words start to sink in. This is not at all what Jim was expecting. "We're not betrothed," he points out, not that it stops him from scooting closer in an effort to soak up more of that body heat. "And I was led to believe that you were going to start getting violent and beating the shit out of me."

"Pon farr does evoke violent emotions in Vulcans." Damn, how did he ever miss how throaty and intense Spock's voice got when he was lapsing into his scholarly lecture mode? Or did it only get that way when he was explaining the mating habits of his species? "However, the woman to whom I was betrothed did not survive the implosion of Vulcan. As a result, I have the right to choose my next mate." He presses a searing kiss in the middle of Jim's palm, and the slow burn of his skin has Jim shivering paradoxically. "I would choose you, if you would have me."

Jim's mind is reeling, spiraling through the anxious, yet maddeningly vague explanations Sarek gave him. He had expected a fight, expected to hurt. Vague as Sarek was, he was painfully clear on their species' history as violent and bloodthirsty. And yet he can't imagine Spock capable of that kind of destruction, not with that open, imploring look on his face. "I would have had you two years ago, Spock. You could have contacted me at anytime and I would have come running. But you've made every effort not to communicate with me if you could help it. Hell, two days ago you basically dismissed me from your life. What changed your mind?"

Spock raises the fingers of his free hand, arranges them in a familiar pattern and moves to touch Jim's temple. He visibly stops himself, wincing as he forces his hand back to his side. "I would show you, but I do not trust myself at present," he explains, closing his eyes. "You asked if my elder counterpart shared any of his experiences with me. He did, perhaps too many of them. I experienced his loss, his loneliness. I did not wish to inflict that kind of pain upon myself, and therefore resolved to attain kolinahr." He runs out of steam then, falling silent and keeping his eyes closed.

Jim presses his other hand to Spock's face, cradling the overheated cheeks and enjoying the closeness before the madness takes over. "And what changed your mind?" he prompts him.

Spock opens his eyes and Jim is taken in by the wildness there, and before he can process what's going on he's being pulled in by an unnatural strength in those long arms. "I discovered it was less painful to embrace the bond and suffer its eventual end than it was to prevent myself from feeling anything at all."

Coming from Spock, that's quite a confession. Jim grins, indulging in a bit of the cocky Captain attitude. "Decided I was worth it?" he teases.

"Yes." And there's nothing but heartfelt sincerity in Spock's voice, so much so that Jim can't help moving in for a kiss. For all Spock's timidity during the conversation, he expects it to be short and sweet, but then there are long fingers curling into his hair, anchoring him in place while Spock explores his mouth with a single-minded intensity that has him gasping for breath by the time he lets him go.

"Jesus, Spock," he mutters, and his voice has gone raspy with want, triggering another hungry expression in the Vulcan that makes his mouth go dry. "M'I gonna make it out of here in one piece?" he asks, only half joking. Spock still has his controls in place. He's going to break apart when he finally lets go.

Spock just raises an eyebrow at him - and oh, Jim's favorite game is back in play again - and slowly unwinds his arms from around Jim's waist, leaving him in an ungraceful sprawl on the floor while he moves to pull the rations kit closer. "Did T'Pranna supply you with this?"

He blinks at him rather stupidly. "Uh, if you mean the secretary outside, yeah."

"She is the sanctuary's keeper. She ensures the security and safety of its visitors." He opens the small crate and begins lifting out different parcels: several packs of food rations, a thermos of water, something that looks suspiciously like a first aid kit, and...

Jim can't help snickering, explaining himself when Spock gives him one of those inscrutable looks. "Sorry. I just didn't expect Vulcans would think lube was a necessary part of an emergency rations kit."

"If a Vulcan is deep in plak tow - the blood fever - during pon farr, he can do immense damage to his mate without ever being aware of it. These help to prevent such damage, or at least limit the severity of it," he explains in his superior scientist tone, removing one of the vials and setting it aside. "They are a logical component of the rations kit."

"Very logical," Jim agrees, even though he can't quite wipe the smirk off his face.

"Reactions such as yours are why Vulcans do not discuss this with outsiders," Spock mutters with a trace of his dry sense of humor.

"I know, I know. Sorry. Hey-" he continues, trying to ask a question, but there's a sudden flurry of movement and he finds himself pinned to the floor amongst all of the meditation cushions, Spock stretched over him with a fire gathering in his eyes.

"You talk too much," Spock informs him, stilted and short considering his usual manner of speaking, and then he's pressing their lips together with a force just shy of crushing. Jim soaks up that still-familiar taste of copper and desert heat and _Spock_ , moaning and scrabbling for some kind of hold on him.

The scrabbling turns into a concerted effort to rid them both of their clothes, Jim fighting Spock's hold on him just enough to pull all those layers of draping Vulcan robes off of him. He only distantly hears the sound of his own being peeled off, seams whining and ripping a bit at the unnatural strength behind Spock's movements.

With anyone else Jim would be making smart-assed comments about the clothes or the eagerness, but it's entirely different with Spock. He's used to the calm, composed, logical First Officer. Barring the one incident in the transporter room, it's all he's ever known of Spock. This wild, passionate creature is almost as much of a stranger as the emotionless one he saw just days ago. But it's a stranger he wants to know, someone he can't help but pull closer in an effort to crawl inside him and delve into that layered Vulcan mind.

There are hands all over him, fingers drawing soft lines down his throat, tracing along his collarbone and pressing his shoulders back down to the floor when he can't help arching up towards the contact, palms pressed over his nipples just to feel them growing harder before traveling elsewhere. It's maddeningly slow, and he opens his mouth to protest when there's a sudden press of lips along the edge of one ear, and then a tongue mapping out the creases and whorls there. It's like being devoured slowly, devoutly, and he pants and whimpers for a moment before he finally gets out anything resembling speech. "Not that I'm complaining," he whispers hoarsely, "but I thought I'd be covered in bruises by now."

"Give it time," Spock returns, his voice full of dark promise and nothing like the clipped monotone he was using only days ago. Jim moans again and tries to seek out Spock's mouth, fingers spearing into his hair and trying to drag him closer for a kiss. Spock apparently has other ideas, though, shaking him off with next to no effort, reaching as if to press his fingers against Jim's temple before thinking better of it for the second time that night, curling his fingers around Jim's throat instead. It's not an aggressive gesture, but when Jim tries to arch upward or reach for him they dig a faint warning into his skin. It's only when he relaxes into it, when he willingly submits himself to whatever it is Spock wants to do, that he's graced with that low purr of a voice again. "Good," Spock murmurs, and despite its simplicity it goes straight to Jim's cock. He's used to having his bedroom performance praised, but not by a Vulcan and certainly not by _this_ Vulcan.

One hand remains on Jim's throat and the other pinning down his hips while Spock continues his leisurely exploration of Jim's body. He uses his lips, tongue, and occasionally his teeth to judge the sensitivity of various areas, sucking the skin above his navel enough that a faint pink mark starts to blossom there, scraping his teeth along the skin over his ribs and watching him squirm, pressing his nose into an armpit and inhaling. Jim wants to protest the last, but it's hard to argue with the fiercely possessive look on Spock's face.

The hands on his throat and his hipbone exert another bout of warning pressure, and Spock leans in so close to his ear that he can feel his lips brushing the skin there. "Do not move," he murmurs, and there's a hint of something feral under the command.

"I'll be good," Jim whispers back, then belies his words by turning his head and stealing a long, drowning kiss from him, drinking in the vague coppery sweetness of him.

Spock doesn't fight him, melting against him for a long moment before breaking the kiss, gazing up at Jim with that open look of utter adoration that Jim is fast falling in love with. "Forgive me if I do not believe you," he says, and Jim grins at that dearly-missed sense of humor.

Spock doesn't break contact entirely - in fact it's almost as if he can't bring himself to do so, stretching a hand far over Jim's head to grab for something before settling back on top of him, pressing kisses from his neck down to his navel as he slithers down his body. Before Jim can think to ask any questions, his legs are being spread apart and Spock is devoting all that passionate focus of his to licking along the sensitive crease where his thigh connects to his hip. He hiccups in a breath, shuddering and splaying his legs wider, hips stuttering helplessly upward until Spock pins them down again. "Spock," he whines, needing to move, needing to touch, needing _something_.

Spock ignores him in favor of nuzzling at his other thigh, pressing soft kisses there, so maddeningly gentle that Jim lets out another whine and tries to protest again. The protest dies in the back of his throat when he feels a slick finger pressing between his cheeks and starting to work the tight ring of muscle there. "Ngh," he attempts a weak protest.

"Shh," comes the soothing muttering somewhere in the vicinity of his left hipbone, punctuating it with a kiss.

"Been awhile," Jim manages to hiss out, not entirely in discomfort. In fact, that slick finger with its gentle probing is damned distracting.

"Good," Spock returns, and that fierce protectiveness is back in his voice again, making Jim shudder and spread his legs wider. Any argument he was about to make for not bottoming dies a willing death then and there. He had been expecting aggression, but not in this slow possessive form.

He concentrates on relaxing enough so that the discomfort starts to melt away, gradually replaced by the slick gentle pressure of Spock's finger working its way into him. He's distantly aware of movement somewhere around his eyes, Spock's free hand making odd fluttering movements over his face before resting on his throat again. The strange dance of fingers continues, first one and then gradually two working into him, the pressure of it not entirely unfamiliar but making him edgy nonetheless. Spock seems to have limitless patience, however, pressing suckling kisses into the skin of his thighs while he slowly scissors his fingers in and out of Jim. It's half pain and half pleasure, the balance tipping gradually towards pleasure.

Somewhere in the midst of his mewling and his attempts to touch searing green-flushed skin, he senses that strange fluttering motion above his eyes again. He cracks them open - and when the hell had he closed them, anyway? how did he ever let himself block out the sight of Spock settled between his legs like he belongs there? - to see Spock's hand reaching to touch him, as if wanting to brush through his hair or trace the shape of his ear, before something stops him and has him resting it over the pulse point in his neck or over his throat. "Spock," he whispers, the end of it stuttering out in a gasp when the gently probing fingers finally hit his prostate. "Oh, fuck, Spock," he babbles, forgetting for a moment what he had been trying to say.

"Soon," comes the heated whisper, and he can feel his hot breath ghosting over his cock.

"No, yes, wait Spock," he babbles, forcing his eyes all the way open and wrapping his fingers around Spock's wrist. "What're you doing?"

"I am ensuring that you are sufficiently primed for-"

"Shit, Spock, don't say 'primed' when you're about to fuck me." Jim can't tell if that's skirting the edge of too clinical or too filthy coming from him, and he can't spare the energy to analyze it just now. "Meant this," he continues, squeezing the wrist in his grip gently, distantly wondering at the gasp that produces and filing it away for later.

The fingers moving inside him come to a shaky stop, dark eyes locking onto his own. "I..." he begins to explain, and then he either can't finish or he's simply too far gone to try.

There's a sudden clarity to Jim's thoughts, and he gets it in a wild rush, choking out something between a laugh and a groan when he figures it out. "Do it."

"I-"

"Do it. I want you to." And he takes Spock's fingers in his as proof, trying to arrange them in roughly the same pattern he remembers, pressing them to his temple. "Please."

"Pon farr can be attended to through sexual activity. A telepathic bond is not required between us." And how he can sound so damned scientific about it when he's naked and practically rutting into the floor is beyond Jim.

"Do it," he repeats again, trying to cull enough brain power to make his point. "Bond us. We're not half-assing this."

Thankfully Spock doesn't question the euphemism. "Jim, are you sure-"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure! I want you, Spock, on my ship and in my head and in _me_ and I swear to God, if you don't stop running your mouth and _get on with it_ -" And that's as far as he gets when Spock settles his fingers more firmly into his temple, murmuring under his breath and launching them into a kind of telepathic abyss with no sense of direction or control.

He feels suffocated by a torrent of possession, desire, need so strong that it leaves him gasping for breath. There's a wildness here, yes, but it's driven by a desperate urge to join with another, to merge with another consciousness. There's an aching emptiness, something that makes him a fraction of what he should be, something crying out for its matching half.

He can't tell which one of them that ache is coming from anymore, can't distinguish which of them is which. He's distantly aware of a pair of bodies moving together, of fingers lacing together, of bodies preparing to join. He feels both the relief of penetration and the burn of being split wide apart. He feels a constricting pressure around his cock and the sudden thrust against his prostate; he is both the impaled and the impaler. It's a duality of sensations that makes it impossible to distinguish himself from the chaos.

He doesn't want to, he realizes with a gasp, and with his acceptance comes a savage torrent of emotion pouring into him, drowning him, and he's taking it in like he can't get enough. This, then, is the violent undercurrent of pon farr - _not physical, too cherished to destroy, too beloved to cause pain_ \- a brutal barrage of emotion threatening to rip him apart, to consume his very being if it isn't embraced in some way, accepted, desired. With his acceptance, he has Spock deep within his body, his mind, encroaching on some part of him that goes even deeper than that, like a handprint branding his very existence.

Elsewhere there is movement, sound, sensation, but here there is nothing but Jim and Spock, threaded round and round one another until there's no distinguishing the two. There's a jumble of thoughts in Jim's head, some his own, some decidedly not, and some of unknown origin. He can't concentrate on any of them long enough to truly hear them, his consciousness spinning down, down into an abyss without end. Small pinpricks of light spiral over him, beyond him, faint snippets of thought and feeling unable to penetrate the euphoric joy of being not two joining as one, but simply _one_ , a single functional unit with no end and no beginning.

There's a heartbeat of nothingness, a blackness that takes over the stars and the spiraling light and the distant entity of his body, and then it fractures into a thousand shining pieces, breaking Jim apart and reforming him into something else, something new, something far better than he could ever hope to be alone. He's gasping for air or howling his pleasure to the sky, he has no idea which, only knows that if the pieces don't come back together within the next few seconds that he'll never be the same.

_T'hy'la._

_Spock?_

_T'hy'la, open your eyes. It is done._

_Can't. I'm broken._

_No. You-_ we _are complete._

Jim does as he's told, cracking his eyes open to take in the fading desert sunlight, the jumbled mess of the cushions on the floor, the sweaty sticky mess cooling on his stomach, and the overwhelming heat of the man still sprawled half-over him. There's a sweet, affectionate kind of hum in the room, and he can't tell if Spock is making that noise or if it's somehow echoing from his mind. There's a nuzzling sensation along his jaw, Spock pressing slow kisses there until he reaches Jim's lips, devouring him slowly.

"Mmm," Jim slurs, shaky fingers sliding into thoroughly rumpled black hair. _Didn't peg you for the affectionate type._

_I did not have proper motivation for affection before now._

He realizes belatedly that they're not actually speaking, breaking the kiss with a little start of surprise. "You can read my thoughts?"

"Obviously." And Jim's never seen a smug Vulcan before, but that is definitely a self-satisfied, shit-eating grin slowly spreading over Spock's face.

"Izzat permanent?" Damn it, he still sounds punch drunk, and Spock's going to humiliate him by being all articulate and clever.

"We will be able to erect mental shields to prevent it from distracting us at inopportune moments."

_So I won't be able to project a mental blowjob at you on the bridge?_

"You could perhaps do so after some familiarity with the bond, though I would advise against it."

Jim shakes his head. "Stop answering questions I haven't asked," he mutters, hoping Spock will extract the sense from his statement. The only answer he receives is another nuzzling kiss to his temple and the sensation of Spock's jutting erection pressed against his hip. "Round two already?" he mutters, feeling like he could sleep for a solid twelve hours.

"Pon farr lasts for at least three days," Spock informs him, and yes, he's definitely rubbing up against him now. "In some Vulcans it has been known to last up to eight."

"M'gonna die," Jim whimpers, but there's an interested twitch in his own cock.

"Several times over," Spock agrees, and before long Jim is lost again.

*******

When at last Jim is allowed to sleep, hours later, so much later that the sunlight has filtered back into the room after hours of darkness, he somehow has the energy to dream.

It's not the kind of dream he's used to, where he's a blurry entity fighting off aliens or drinking in praise from Starfleet or running around in his underwear while Bones chases him with a hypospray. He sees everything in sharp definition, in brilliant color, with a clarity of sound as if witnessing the scene in real time rather than in sleep.

Two figures, strange and familiar all at once, drifting comfortably on the edges of space. A sensation of peace and unity that Jim is only just starting to understand himself. There's no sense of age here, no sense of physicality at all. There's only Spock - the elder Spock, not his Spock - and another figure, another him.

Spock and James, he understands. And then a voice, similar to his own and yet nothing like.

You once said being a starship Captain was my first, best destiny. If that's true, then yours is to be by my side. If there's any true logic to the universe, we'll end up on that bridge again. Someday.

That someday is now, Jim realizes, and the sharpness of the image fades back to a blurry, fuzzy sense of completion and love.


End file.
